


Stuck on Repeat

by pyrrhical (anoyo)



Series: Repeat 'Verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU - Canon Divergence, Also the Addition of Liam, Canon Through Second Season, F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Major Character Death Does Not Occur Onscreen, Major Original Character(s), Prior Established Relationship, Rating will go up, Slow Burn, Some Age-Appropriate Angst, Some Triggering Events (Warnings Will Be in Each Chapter), Stiles is a Badass, With the Addition of Cora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 15:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 77,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10493832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoyo/pseuds/pyrrhical
Summary: Twelve years after leaving Beacon Hills, and everything it represented, Stiles is a well-respected analyst at the CIA. Unfortunately, life likes its irony, and Stiles finds his pretty fabulous CIA career turned on its side when an asset-turned-mark turns out to be a little less than human.(In my Google Docs, this is in a folder called "Stiles CIA." Stiles is in the CIA! Canon divergence after season two.)





	1. In Which Stiles Is Intuitive and Davis Is Jive With That

**Author's Note:**

> This idea blossomed in late 2012, after season two, but before season three, so the entire outline diverges after season two.
> 
> That said, yes, this entire fic is outlined. It's going to be a monster. My goal? To update once a week. It'll likely be Sunday/Monday, but I wanted to get this first chapter out there to see if folks like it. I'll admit it -- I'm a feedback junkie. The more feedback, the better. 
> 
> There are quite a few OCs, which sort of makes sense? Hopefully they don't all suck. I have a chart for them. They have personalities. 
> 
> Special thanks to Mel, who helped me make this chapter not suck. I'm absolute crap at beginnings. Drop me in the middle of something anytime.
> 
> _NB: Why yes, I did change the summary. It was long, and since the story is complete, I wanted it to reflect what it's really about. Also it was insanely melodramatic._

**2016**

”Stop.”

Stiles settled the box more evenly in his arms and kept walking. “No.”

“Stop.”

Stiles clenched his jaw, but kept moving.

“Sto-”

The box landing with a bang in the back of Stiles’ Jeep cut off the rest of the word. He paused, staring at the boxes taking up most of his Jeep’s space, even with the the back seats folded up, before turning and walking back toward the house.

Like he’d anticipated, Derek was blocking the sidewalk. Stiles choked down a flinch, then walked around him. When Derek put his arm out to catch him, Stiles jerked himself so far to the side that he nearly fell onto the lawn. Again, there was Derek’s hand, reaching out to steady him.

Stiles knocked it away. “Enough!” he shouted, righting himself. “Fucking enough, Derek.”

“No. It’s not.”

“What the fuck’s left to say?” Stiles asked, throwing his arms wide. “What hasn’t already been said? I’ve heard all of it and I’m still leaving.” 

“No.” Stiles waited for more, even met Derek’s eyes, but nothing else came.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Stiles shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You don’t have a single thing to say, do you?”

“No,” Derek answered.

Stiles looked back at him, shaking his head. “Then go the hell away, Derek.”

“No.”

Stiles bit back anything else he might have said. “Fine. Stay if you want. I don’t care.” He set off walking toward the house.

**2028**

Stiles swiped his keycard at the door, still smiling at the double-redundancy in security. In his vastly learned opinion, the CIA was paranoid as shit, but they were doing it wrong. To get in the gates to the complex, you showed an ID card, and the gate-guards swiped it. To get into the building after getting through the gates, you swiped the same ID card.

All you really needed was one fake ID and one good code and wham, there you were. It wasn’t like the card itself would be difficult to make. Barcode, picture, hardened plastic.

But that really wasn’t Stiles’ job. Stiles’ job was to sit at a desk and analyze data that came in from the field in relation to any one particular mission -- which might change from today to tomorrow to even yesterday, since what he was working on yesterday might not exist anymore -- and then to deduce what the balls was going on fast enough that whatever field agent was out there didn’t end up walking into either A) a wall or B) a building full of heavily armed men who wanted to kill her. 

Both of those had apparently happened, in the past. Stiles had replaced the analyst who had caused those fuck-ups. He wasn’t psyched to see a set of facts rumble in that led to either one. Actually, he kind of wanted to see the first, because, _really_.

Everyone in the building seemed to know Stiles, or at least know _of_ Stiles. He was strangely famous. Stiles was used to being strangely famous. He sort of always had been. Here, he was famous because he was _damn good_. It was something Stiles had always known -- that he was smart, that he was quick on his feet, and that his brain was faster than most and puzzled things out that weren’t even a blip on the radar for most people.

That he was smart enough that he even impressed all the CIA folks that did the same damn thing? That, Stiles hadn’t guessed. So, yeah, he was a little bit famous. As Stiles walked down the halls toward the higher security elevators, people greeted him, waved, and occasionally stopped him to ask his opinion on security or tech protocols that were being introduced. Stiles had been around long enough to know the shark pit that was the internal dynamics of the CIA. Questions were never really just amiable. Opinions had right and wrong answers.

Stiles didn’t seem to ever get them wrong. That had been at the beginning. Three years in, he’d learned a thing or seventy. Now he got them right on purpose. He was pretty famous for that, too.

As he reached his elevator, he fell into step with one of the field agents in his division. He knew she had just returned from recon in Amsterdam, and that the recon had been unsuccessful. He knew that this was partially because she had failed to turn a key asset, and partially because the team of analysts assigned specifically to her mission had fucked up royally.

She scowled at him and took a long sip of her coffee. Stiles gave her a brilliant smile and used his swipe card to grant them access to their floor. As the elevator trundled up, he said, “Welcome back,” in a neutral tone, clipping his swipe card to his shirt pocket.

The agent gave him a disparaging look. “Yeah, great. Get to get my ass chewed off as soon as I step off this elevator for _your_ fuck up.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “My fuck up? Anna,” he said, “Davis was your lead analyst, not me.”

Anna’s scowl deepened. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry, Stilinski. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to that part of the briefing.” She grinned at Stiles in a way Stiles assumed was meant to be conciliatory, but Stiles interpreted as the usual field agent-analyst gap. Not the same level, didn’t have to care. “No hard feelings?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, taking the moment the elevator doors opened to step out as quickly as possible.

That was what Stiles hated about field agents. They had the badass field training, they could go into the field, they could what-the-fuck-ever, so that meant, what? No one else existed? Both he and Davis were in their positions because they had the skills to be, just like Anna. And he’d been having such a great, egotistical morning, too.

He walked into his department to, in fact, a giant shitshow. Stiles worked for a little known department of the CIA (not that any departments were actually known, the CIA was weird like that) that tracked down people trying to create computer megaviruses. When they found those people, they locked them up, and then either destroyed or kept the viruses. In an agency where more than half the staff could take those megaviruses and make them even more potent, it stood to reason that Stiles’ department was fairly small, and incredibly focused.

There were only two teams of analysts and three field agents, which meant that one of the teams was booking two agents at once at any given time and probably doing more than their fair share of work. When Stiles’ boss, a terrifying woman named Captain Captain Andrews Andrews, realized that Stiles was incredibly good at multitasking _as well_ as barking out orders (Stiles ignored the irony), she started giving him more of the “double-shifts”. This meant that, at that moment, he had two agents out on cases.

Which meant that Captain Andrews looking sort of like the little tea pot before someone poured it the fuck out -- steam everywhere -- was a really, really bad sign.

Anna took a remarkable -- but not surprising -- amount of time to get from the elevator to the office, and by then, Stiles had gotten to his office to start parsing through the data that had come in overnight. Anything more sinister than usual would have auto-red-flagged, and that would have sent an alert to his phone -- an amazing program Stiles had created himself, and was paid a great deal of money to give to the other lead analysts at the agency -- so he wasn’t overly concerned with the information. He did, however, want to go through all of it with his own eyes, since they tended to catch the little things the app missed. That and he was a bit of a workaholic.

Once Anna was fully in the office, and the door was shut behind her, Captain Andrews (who sort of looked like a praying mantis, to tell the truth), immediately yelled for Davis and Anna to come to the front of the large, circular area that she liked to use as their “war station,” despite the fact that you can’t actually lay out troop diagrams against computer viruses.

Continuing to filter through the information he’d received overnight, Stiles caught only bits and pieces of what Captain Andrews was yelling about, but it seemed as though the degree of fuck up had been, for once, sizably understated. Anna had not only failed to turn an asset, she had pissed the asset off so badly that the he had gone to the mark, told him that Anna was CIA, and the mark had hacked all of Anna’s existing aliases. To make matters worse, Anna had pissed off the potential asset because the potential asset had been a Kurdish refugee and Anna had made an off-handed joke about the oil wars. Stupid, at the best of times, but completely avoidable if Davis had done his due diligence on the asset. An asset who was living under an assumed identity, which Davis had failed to realize. A failure that was usually about as ridiculous as failing to hack through a McAfee firewall.

Apparently, Anna had tried to rectify the situation by throwing everything down, because Anna was a good agent, everything said and done. She’d shown the asset everything the virus would do, and even read the asset in on the murders and disappearances the mark had been at the center of, to try and get the asset to back her play.

Instead, the asset had hit Anna with a vase, knocked her out, and run straight to the mark.

“Either one of you want to explain _how this shitfest happened_?” Captain Andrews asked, leaning menacingly over both Davis and Anna, just like a praying mantis about to bite the heads off its prey.

Davis opened his mouth, then shut it again, looking to Anna.

Anna withered. “Honestly, ma’am, I have no idea. I called Davis on the way back, and those papers she’s got go all the way back to her birth. They’re damn good. She’s hiding something really big, bigger than just being Kurdish. Probably that she has something to do with the murders.”

“I have a question,” Stiles said, getting out of his chair and heading for the debate. Most of his fellow analysts were giving him “rest in peace” signs. Stiles was famous at the CIA for his sheer badassery, but he’d been famous in college for something else: his ability to stay out of confrontations. Stiles was not known to get involved in anyone else’s shit, unless they dragged him in, kicking and screaming. He was also the one people turned to when they needed a neutral guy to solve their problems.

If he was being really cerebral, Stiles would say his college famous had come around out of bitterness, which was hilarious, in a morbid sort of way. 

“I hope it’s a damn important question, Stilinski,” his boss said. 

“What intel got us there in the first place?” Stiles asked.

His boss scowled, but Davis said, “Green light ping.”

That meant that there had been a code marker logged somewhere in the area that had left a trail the CIA -- or some other spy agency that shared information with the CIA, for whatever reason -- could follow. “How’d we figure out who the mark was?” Stiles asked. A green light ping was a pretty standard ping. Usually, an agent wasn’t expected to take down a green light ping. It was just a trigger from some code.

“We traced the code back to an Internet cafe,” Davis said, his voice a little steadier as he recited the facts.

“And the Internet cafe up and told you?” Stiles asked, smiling.

Davis scowled. “Of course not. Surveillance. The mark walked out right after the ping, and no one else walked in or out within a thirty minute window. No other computers were logged on, either. He must have skipped a security protocol.”

Internally, Stiles raised an eyebrow. That would have thrown up red flags for Stiles, but Davis believed in that whole “if it looks like an egg, it’s probably an egg” thing. From Stiles’ experience, if it looked like an egg, it could be an egg, but it could also be an entirely new galaxy full of sentient species, so nothing, really, was out of the question. (All right, he’d never seen that, but if it could happen on _Men in Black_ it could happen in real life. He’d seen weirder shit.) “What led you to the asset?” Stiles asked.

Captain Andrews cut in, “Stilinski, what’s your point?” She had been recruited by the CIA for her ability to keep fingers in all the pies and delegate like a pro, not because she knew a damn thing about cyber analysis. 

“Because I have a theory,” Stiles said, waving his hand at Captain Andrews. She huffed, but didn’t say anything else, crossing her arms. Captain Andrews had fought four other divisions for Stiles when he’d been promoted to a senior analyst. She also let him get away with way more sass than any member of a government organization ever, ever should. Stiles amazing analysis had concluded that the two might be connected.

Anna cleared her throat. “I actually pointed out the asset, after I landed in Amsterdam. She met up with the mark for lunch. It appeared as though they were romantically involved.”

“So you decided to turn her.” It wasn’t a question. His theory was looking pretty good, right about now.

“After having her background checked!” Anna snapped.

Davis slouched. “I am damn good at my job, ma’am,” he said, turning back to Captain Andrews. “I did everything I knew how to do to check her background. She had it _flawlessly_ concealed.”

“That’s my point,” Stiles said, breaking in again. “I agree with Anna. Why go to that much work just to hide that you’re Kurdish? In Amsterdam, no one’s hunting you down. But I disagree about the murder. If you murder a few people, you buy some fake papers and run off. You don’t literally create an entire life. The skill it takes to do that? That’s some real dedicated energy.” He grinned. “Our hacker. Have you ID’d him yet?”

Davis blinked. “Yeah. Based on his appearance and some stills I got, he’s a Dutch national with legitimate ID. If not, he covers his trail really damn well.”

“Or,” Stiles said, “he’s really just a Dutch national, with Dutch papers, who’s dating a murderous International hacker-slash-murderer who might have taught him a little bit of computer programming.”

There was a long pause in the room before Captain Andrews starting laughing, a guffaw that was more exhale than real laugh. “So you tried to ‘turn’ the mark.” she said, looking at her aghast agent.

Anna gaped a few more moments, then replied, “Permission to go find a mission where I won’t make an ass of myself, ma’am?”

“Permission to try,” Captain Andrews replied, smiling, before she marched up the steps to her office at the front of the room. Before she went inside, she yelled to the room, “I believe we still have two agents on mission and that we had a red flag last night! Everybody back to _work_!”

After Captain Andrews had fully cleared out, Stiles turned to Davis and asked, “What red flag?” 

“Sheila caught it,” Davis said, gesturing to the cluster of desks belonging to his team. “She was here overnight, trying to salvage Anna’s mission. Sheila, Michael, and Kevin all were.” He shrugged. “By the time I got here, it was fully in the crapper.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, walking back to his desk. He glanced back over at Davis and called, “You want to take over Jesse’s mission recon?”

“Sure,” Davis said, doing as Stiles did, and heading back to his desk. “Send someone over to brief?”

Stiles nodded. “Alex’ll be there in a minute.”

When he reached his desk, Stiles asked Alex to compile the data on Jesse’s mission, then give a handoff to Davis. He stopped thinking about it as soon as Alex had walked away.

It was a puzzle. A background Davis couldn’t see was a fake? Either Davis was worse at his job than all of his past successes implied, or the background really was just that flawless. Stiles picked up his handset and punched in Davis’ extension. He wasn’t above getting his information the lazy way.

“Davis.”

“Do you know it was a fake ID because you found a hole, or because of the Kurdish thing?” Stiles asked, tapping a pen on a small Post-It pad.

“The Kurdish thing,” Davis said. “I still can’t find a way around that ID.”

“Care if I try?” Stiles asked. 

“Knock yourself out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Important Note** : These chapters are all un-beta'd. When the story is complete, the chapters will be reposted as they're edited. Also, the series tag is because there are already spin-off stories, but I won't be posting them until this is fully posted. Feel free to subscribe so you get them when they appear.
> 
> Some housekeeping: I have no idea what "class" Stiles & co. are in, since they did the One Tree Hill thing and the series doesn't follow the actual timeline during which it aired. So I'm calling them the class of 2017, since that's when the show is ending. This is a future fic. Actually, a "quite a bit in the future" fic, so while I'm going to be basically using today's tech (I'm not that cool, to create new tech), I'm going to run on the assumption that it's all a bit better, and more effective. I might make some things up. Occasionally, I _am_ that cool.
> 
> For the record, that means this fic starts: February of 2028.
> 
> I fast-tracked Stiles a little in his Ph.D., since we all know he'd do that. It's also from MIT, since that's my Linguistics Ph.D. of choice. I did not invent the Forensic Linguistics Ph.D. Totally a thing. We'll just pretend MIT offers it. 
> 
> 2028 would make the teen characters all 29/30, in case that math was stupid to you like it was to me.
> 
> Conceptually the timeline up to this fic is:  
> 2016: Stiles leaves Beacon Hills, finishes high school Elsewhere (if I need a place, I'll think of a place)  
> 2017: Stiles begins undergrad at Berkeley (Computer Science, Linguistics)  
> 2020: Stiles begins Ph.D. at MIT (Forensic Linguistics)  
> 2025: Stiles begins working at the CIA as an Associate Analyst.  
> 2026: Promoted to Junior Analyst.  
> 2027: Promoted to Senior Analyst.
> 
> If you have any questions about the timeline, just ask. Also: yes, I know he rocketed through that Ph.D. But come on, he totally would. (I've seen it. Twice. Okay, one was six years.)


	2. In Which Stiles Has a Rude Awakening and Pisses Off Andrews and Davis in the Process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is un-beta'd. If anyone knows a good Teen Wolf beta, I'd be all over that. All mistakes are my own.

His first seventy tries, Stiles got nothing. Not even a crack. The false ID held up like a real ID would.

Hell, it probably held up better than a real ID would under such intense scrutiny -- there were always inconsistencies in real life. Little imperfections that let on that something had been missed, or covered up. 

That was the first clue. No ID was perfect. Even the President of the United States had blips on his ID.

So, Stiles started looking for ways the person the ID described managed something impossible. 

For instance, how she had managed to move from Italy to the Netherlands without the necessary hit to her bank account. Or, at least, any of the bank accounts associated with the ID. For all intents and purposes, she had picked up all her possessions in Tuscany and carried them without charge to Amsterdam. There were the house purchases and sales, and even snacks along the way, but nothing middling; nothing that indicated moving all of her possessions that far.

Anyone who had ever moved any distance knew about those charges. They were a pain in the ass. 

That, as it happened, turned out to be the key. Programming a key to searching through moving companies with locations matching her moves was a simple enough task. Stiles hadn’t been expecting to actually get anything from it. If she was good enough to create a foolproof ID, she probably would have paid off her movers, or gotten allies to do it, if she had any.

She hadn’t. She’d paid in cash, which wasn’t the most useful in his hunt, but if she’d made one mistake, she’d made more. 

Stiles worked on the ID when he had the time, between doing his actual job making sure Hong’s recon wasn’t going to implode like Anna’s had, and working on the intel for Anna’s next job. Apparently she wasn’t letting Davis near her at the moment, and Davis wasn’t arguing. 

It took him nearly a month to find another inconsistency in the ID. She had a good listing of properties, including houses in three countries. They all checked out, purchased legally, appropriate funds going to the right places. The tech company her ID said she freelanced for, and which Stiles had discovered she actually _did_ , paid her very well. 

The inconsistency only popped up when Stiles retasked a satellite to take some pictures of the properties, to see if she would check in on any of them. Two of the properties were modest homes in good neighborhoods in Nice and Hong Kong. One of the properties was in a gated community in Manhattan.

When Stiles compared the list prices for other homes in the community and the price the “asset” had paid for her own, there was a discrepancy of about two million dollars. Stiles would have written it off as having gotten a good deal, ordinarily, but his gut was telling him that wasn’t the case.

Stiles had long ago stopped ignoring his gut.

He sent the data in a burst to Davis’ terminal, then got up and walked over.

“What does this look like to you?” Stiles asked, pulling an empty desk chair up behind Davis’ workstation while he watched Davis skimming through the data Stiles had sent.

Davis spared a glance back at him before pulling up the live images of the house. “This looks like one hell of a property deal. Have you checked for the usual reasons for a price drop? Murders in the house, previous property damage, that sort of thing?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, ignoring that Davis couldn’t see him. “Of course. There’s nothing, not in the housing agent’s old files, or in city records. Either it got wiped, which I doubt, or our asset got one hell of a deal.”

Nodding, Davis pulled up the blueprints for the house from the file Stiles had sent. “There’s nothing unusual in these.”

“Pull up the records on the previous owners,” Stiles said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

Davis gave him another look, but pulled up the information. “They bought the house new, paid a good three million more than the asset. That all sounds legitimate.” He paused. “They made six million dollars worth of improvements to the house.” Davis spun his chair around to look at Stiles. “That’s one hell of a lot of improvement.”

“And there are no new blueprints,” Stiles said, grinning. 

Davis’ eyes narrowed. “What are the chances Anna wants a do-over?”

“Considering the last time I saw her, she was still ranting about how it hadn’t been her fault, and she couldn’t have known, I’d say pretty good,” Captain Andrews cut in. 

Stiles looked up to see her standing against a desk near them.

“So you found something,” she said, her eyes moving between Stiles and Davis. 

“We found something,” Stiles agreed. “We need to get into this house. I get the feeling it’ll get us another something, if we do.”

“I agree,” Captain Andrews said. “But I don’t think Anna should do it. She’s been compromised with the mark.” She turned to Davis. “When will Jesse be back from Khartoum?” 

“There’s an exfil team on standby. He already transmitted the data back to us, he’s just doing some clean-up,” Davis said. 

“Good. Get him on it once he’s back. Davis, you’ll be point.” Captain Andrews looked between Stiles and Davis again. “Even if it’s not your work, it was your fuck-up. You get to fix it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Davis said. 

“Start planning.”

Davis raised his eyebrows at Stiles once she’d walked away. “Pissed?” he asked.

Stiles shook his head. “I’ve got Anna and Hong still out. Planning another operation sounds like a shitty reward for some good research.” He grinned. “Plus, you get thrown under the bus again if it fails.”

“Ha ha,” Davis deadpanned. “All right. I’m going with simple is best. Let me know if you find anything else.”

Standing, Stiles saluted sharply and Davis snorted. “I can do that.”

“Thanks, Stilinski,” Davis said, turning back to his computer.

“What are bros for?” Stiles asked, grinning as he walked back to his station.

“We’re not bros,” Davis called back at him.

“Whatever you say, man.”

 

It was two weeks later, after Stiles had already packed up for the day, when Davis waved him over with an impatient hand.

Messenger bag slung over his shoulder, Stiles made his way to Davis’ desk.

“What’s up?” he asked leaning against the desk behind Davis’ station and ignoring the “Get your ass off my desk, Stilinski” that came from Michael, one of Davis’ junior analysts. 

“The operation’s planned,” Davis said. He pointed to several sets of city blueprints on his terminals. “Simple. Water main burst. Jesse’s going to go in, take some pictures, and get out. Tomorrow morning.”

“I like it,” Stiles said, giving Davis an open-handed slap to the shoulder. “When’s the main going to blow?”

“Oh-two-hundred,” Davis said. “Sheila’s going to take night watch and answer the call that comes in at the city maintenance department.”

“Get her to ping me, too, if anything suspicious comes over the line,” Stiles said, standing again.

“Done,” Sheila called, obviously eavesdropping.

Davis drummed his fingers on his desk before turning to face Stiles. “This had better get us somewhere.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “The idea of some fake ID taking us down twice is probably more than my pride can take.” He grinning across the room at Captain Andrew’s desk, where she was staring at what had to be a dozen folders of information at once, spread all over. “Not to mention the Captain’s. We’ll be the laughing stock of the division.”

The division director, Vanessa Underwood, was notorious for making sure all her departments knew when one of the others had screwed up. They were still getting comments for the last time they’d dealt with this “asset,” now truly a mark.

“All right, man,” Stiles said, giving Davis another friendly pat. “I’m heading home. I’ll see you bright and early.”

“Yes, you will.”

 

Stiles was into the office forty-five minutes earlier than usual, and he still wasn’t the first, or even the fifth. Most of Davis’ team were already at their workstations, pulling up CCTV footage from all around the mark’s home, testing Jesse’s distance equipment, and making other operation preparations. 

Jesse’s appointment at the house was for oh-nine-hundred, and he was already on location, making sure his own equipment was in place and ready to go. They’d suited him with a still camera on the first button of his shirt, set to go off every fifteen seconds, as well as a rolling camera on the baseball cap he was wearing. 

On schedule, Jesse pulled his city van out of the lot it had been sitting in, set to arrive seven minutes late to his appointment. They’d decided that a city worker actually showing up on time would have been suspicious. 

Stiles wished he could disagree, but the last time his building manager had reported a sewage leak to Langley, they’d been a full four hours later than they’d scheduled.

“All right, Jesse,” Davis said into the microphone on his desk, “try not to be too competent. Fumble. Stay in there as long as you can.”

“Got it,” came Jesse’s voice, crisp and clear over the room’s intercom. The department’s main viewing screen split, half showing the video, and half breaking into segments for a rotating basis of nine photos. 

Stiles moved to the front of the room, sitting down at a terminal closer to the viewing screen, turning on the microphone in front of him, and making sure it was cued to Jesse’s receiver. It was Davis’ op, but Stiles was going to make sure he had the ability to cut in if necessary.

Captain Andrews joined him, setting up her microphone and leaning back in her chair to watch the video roll. As Jesse parked and began walking up the lane to the front door, the still camera switched on, taking pictures at its regular intervals. 

It only took a few moments after Jesse’s knock for the door to open, revealing the mark herself, dressed to impress in a rose-colored sundress. As Jesse introduced himself, a glare appeared in both cameras, making it difficult to see into the mark’s eyes. 

The mark introduced herself and Angelica Basil, the name on her fake ID, and invited Jesse inside. She took a moment to offer Jesse refreshments, which Jesse gladly accepted. He followed the mark into the kitchen, making sure to look around, complimenting her decorations and giving the camera plenty of time to record. She thanked him as she poured him a glass of lemonade. When she turned to hand the glass to Jesse, the glare popped up again, obscuring her eyes.

Something pulled at Stiles’ gut. That feeling of something he knew, just out of reach, pulled at him. He sat more rigidly in his chair, watching the feed.

The mark began leading Jesse to where the water main had begun leaking into the foundation of her home, down a set of stairs and into a storage room filled with different seasons of decorations and extra chairs for her expensive-looking dining room table. 

“You see, it’s leaking in here along the wall,” she said, gesturing to a large clear area where the carpet was damp. She had clearly moved things away from the spillage.

“That looks pretty bad,” Jesse said slowly. “Is it leaking into the basement, too?” 

The mark turned to him, the glare over her eyes returning. “Along one of the walls, yes,” she said. “Though I don’t mind making the repairs myself. You ought to get a team out here to fix the main.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Jesse said, pulling out a battered iPhone and dialing the fake city number Davis’ team had programmed in. It rang a few times before Sheila answered.

“Mr. Baker,” she said, using the name Jesse had adopted for the op.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse said, walking back out into the larger space outside the storage room. “We’ve got a lot of leakage here. It looks like the main burst at least six hours ago. We’re going to need a bigger cleanup team.”

“Level of damage?” Sheila asked as Jesse walked himself slowly around the room. He stopped when he caught sight of a door the mark hadn’t led him through, and let his wandering take him in that direction.

“Ruined this poor lady’s carpet,” Jesse said. “At least a fifty yard radius. At least none of them other houses were in range.”

“All right,” Sheila replied. “I’ll get a team out there as soon as we have one free.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” Jesse said before hanging up. He turned back to the mark, who was leaning gracefully against the dining room table, her eyes still causing a glare in the cameras. “Looks like at least a few hours until folks’ll be out to clean up,” he said apologetically.

The mark smiled. “I understand. I’m sure the damage is reparable.” She paused. “Should I submit reimbursement with the city?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Jesse said, then pulled a packet out of one of his inner pockets. It was creased and a little crumpled. “Just follow the directions here, and it’ll get all taken care of.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the packet and setting it down on the table behind her.

Jesse pointed to the door. “That the basement?” he asked.

“Yes,” the mark replied. 

“Mind if I take a look?” Jesse asked. “Might be able to get a better timeline on the break.”

The mark paused a moment before her smile returned and she said, “I’d really prefer not. It’s unfinished, and I just hate people seeing that. I’ll be able to get it fixed, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Jesse said. “I’d just like to be as accurate as possible.”

The mark stared at him a little longer, the glare from her eyes making it more and more difficult to see her facial expression. “All right,” she said slowly. “But I really must warn you about the roughness.”

“Not a problem, ma’am,” Jesse said, and Stiles could hear him smiling. “I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

The woman smiled again, and gestured in the direction of the door. “This way, then,” she said.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. Stiles knew where he’d seen that gleam before: in a security camera as a murder took place.

Back in Beacon Hills.

Stiles punched the button for his microphone harder than he needed to. “Jesse, get out of there. Get out of there _now_. Do not go into that basement. Tell her you forgot to look at the time, and you’ve got another water main to check out. Ask her to take pictures for you so the city can make sure the damage they’re paying to fix is accurate. Just get out of there _now_.”

Jesse didn’t miss a beat. He pulled up his watch, and the camera caught it click over to oh-nine-twenty. Jesse cussed lightly, which caught the mark’s attention.

“Mr. Baker?” she asked, still smiling.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m supposed to be in the Bronx by ten. I’m never going to make it if I don’t leave now,” Jesse said. “The basement’ll have to wait. Take some pictures, would you, so the city gets the evidence and pays you back right, would you? Sometimes they don’t like to accept all the charges, if no one sees the damage.”

The woman nodded. “Of course. Shall I send them to you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse said. “If you can get digitals, just send them to my email. You got a pen and paper?”

“This way,” the woman said, leading Jesse back toward the kitchen. 

Jesse scrawled the fake email they’d given him on a piece of stationary. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “I hope you make it to your appointment on time.”

The camera took a picture toward the floor as Jesse tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The mark walked back to her front door and opened it. “Have a lovely day,” she said.

“You too,” Jesse replied, stepping out the door and walking calmly back toward his van. It wasn’t until he was a block away from the house that he came back on the line. “What the hell, Stilinski?” he asked. “She was nervous about the basement. That’s what we wanted to see, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, pressing down on his microphone button. “Just trust me, Jesse. That woman was going to kill you if you made it into the basement. She wouldn’t have taken any chances.”

“Fine,” Jesse said, though Stiles could hear the annoyance in his voice. “Cutting comms. I’ll report in from the New York Field Office in thirty.”

Davis cut the camera feeds and stood up. “Jesse’s right, Stilinski. What the hell?”

“I’d like to know that myself,” Captain Andrews said, swiveling her chair to stare Stiles down from far too close for comfort.

Stiles brain threw itself into overtime. “Her expression,” he said, adlibbing. “It changed. She wasn’t smiling, she was grinning. She took a minute to make the decision, but she made it. If Jesse was going to get into that basement, he wasn’t going to get out.”

“Jesse is a perfectly capable agent,” Captain Andrews said. “I doubt that woman could have overpowered him.” 

Grimacing, a _you would have been wrong_ ran through his head before he replied, “It wasn’t worth the risk. We know she’s hiding something down there. All we have to do is watch the house and wait until we know she’s gone. That’s a much better time to go, and we wouldn’t be risking Jesse’s life.”

Captain Andrews kept her eyes on Stiles’. “Fine,” she said, her tone implying it was anything but. She turned to Davis. “I want all the imagery checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. If there’s anything that might lead to her true identity, I want it found.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Davis said. His eyes drifted towards Stiles again, and Stiles knew his explanation hadn’t been good enough for either of them.

That was just perfect. It wasn’t like he’d had another choice. If there was a better way to say, “Jesse had to get out of there because he was walking into a vampire den, and was going to be breakfast,” Stiles sure as hell didn’t know it.


	3. In Which Stiles Gets a Transfer and a New Kind of Headache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates today. I couldn't stop where I left off chapter two. I'm crap at starting things, but great at the middle. We've reached the middle. Again, un-beta'd. Any mistakes are my own. 
> 
> (I'm actually now about a third of the way through chapter four. Whoops. That one you're not getting today, though, sorry.)

A drink was the first thing Stiles thought of when he returned to his apartment that evening. The second was, _fucking vampires, really?_

The third was that this was absolutely not his problem.

He pointedly ignored the fact that it, in fact, _was_ , since his department was not going to let this go. 

Somewhere around his third beer, Stiles worked up the courage to open a folder on his computer that he hadn’t touched in twelve years. “Supernatural Research” had been relegated to his archived documents, but it was still there. Stiles stared at the folder labeled “vampires” for a few minutes. 

Opening it took a kind of courage Stiles hadn’t owned in years.

The folder confirmed everything his gut had been trying to tell him during the op. Vampires’ eyes couldn’t be recorded. They had two layers to them, one of which was to perfect their night vision, and it caused a glare on any digital equipment. 

The folder went on to describe just how fucked they were.

Vampires didn’t burn to ashes in the daylight; it simply wasn’t pleasant. Garlic was something they put on spaghetti, just like anyone else. If a vampire hadn’t been Christian in their first life, a cross did nothing. The same with holy water. The only myths that held up were the oldest, and the least useful.

They couldn’t cross running water unless they were at least a hundred feet above it. Stiles was sure that had been more useful before planes. It was also useless with the ocean; apparently, that wasn’t running water. They could be killed with a wooden stake to the heart, or by beheading, but both of those were a lot harder than they sounded. Getting what was essentially a pointy stick through a ribcage meant to protect hearts was not an easy task.

Finally, and most inconveniently, vampires didn’t turn people by biting them. They turned people by feeding them vampire blood, and then killing them. Vampirism was like a really awkward STD.

They hadn’t actually defeated the vampires back in Beacon Hills, either. They’d killed a few, and the rest had decided sticking around just wasn’t worth it. Werewolf strength got the stake where it needed to go, but vampires were faster and stronger. The age of the vampire didn’t matter. The only advantage the wolves had was that they couldn’t be turned.

If the CIA sent anyone into that blind, they’d be dead in the blink of an eye.

At least it explained the perfect ID. It was real. The vampire had simply adopted that ID and lived while it aged as a real human might, then adopted it when it was ready. They had hundreds of those at their disposal. It was how the pack had lost them, all those years ago.

Stiles had spent twelve years forgetting about the supernatural, only to have it rear back up at him. 

He was going to have to watch people he knew die before the CIA called off the op and stuck it in the “look at this again when people have forgotten all the friends and colleagues that have died” file.

The idea of simply getting up and leaving was tempting. Stiles was an amazing analyst. He could get a job anywhere, in any private sector he wanted. He didn’t have to stay at the CIA. 

He knew he wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t fair to his team. If people were going to be sent after vampires, Stiles had an obligation to do everything he could to keep them alive. 

It was another two beers before Stiles could fall asleep, somewhere between “this is a bad idea” and “you’re too old for this” o’clock.

 

When Stiles arrived back at the office, it was to an uproar.

Davis was ranting at his terminal, occasionally throwing his hands in the air, and Stiles could hear Captain Andrews screaming into her phone in her office. 

He beelined for Davis. 

“What’s going on?” Stiles asked, looming over Davis. 

“What’s going on?” Davis repeated. “Our files are gone. All of them. According to any records we can access, the op yesterday never happened. Everything related to the op yesterday never happened. Our case has been retasked.”

Stiles stared at Davis for a moment. “Retasked by who?”

“That’s what Captain Andrews is trying to find out,” Davis said, gesturing vaguely toward Andrews’ office, where she was still screaming into her phone. “She got an alert in the middle of the night that the files were being transferred, and we no longer had the case. She called me in, I called in my team, and we’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.”

“And you have nothing?” Stiles asked.

“Absolutely fuck-all,” Davis said. “It’s just gone.” He turned his chair to face Stiles dead-on. “Why did you call off the op yesterday? You’re no expert on body language. How did you know the mark was going to kill Jesse?”

“I told you,” Stiles said. “Her face. We’ve seen it before.”

“Bullshit,” Davis said, crossing his arms. “You know something you’re not sharing. And you know what? I’m willing to bet that _something_ is what got the case yanked.”

Stiles ground his teeth. Lying to Davis was pointless. “Good,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Anyone we went in there was going to die. Even if we sent in a dozen of our very best agents, they were going to die.” He put up a hand when Davis opened his mouth, probably to start yelling again. “Don’t ask. I just know,” Stiles said. “And I can’t say I’m upset that’s not going to happen. If whoever took the case knows more about this than we do, good.”

“Goddammit, Stilinski,” Davis said, slamming a hand down on his desk and gaining the attention of half the room. “What the fuck do you know? Why is our case gone?”

Anyone who hadn’t been staring after Davis had hit his desk was staring now. Stiles clenched his jaw tighter, knowing he was going to have one hell of a headache later. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The case is gone. We have other cases. Jesse’s alive. Do you think freaking out about it is going to get us the case back? No. So try to get the hell over it, Greg.”

Davis glared at Stiles, unimpressed by the use of his first name. “No,” Davis said. “That was our case. We fucking cracked it. It was our win to take.”

“But it wouldn’t have been a win!” Stiles yelled. He knew he was losing his patience, and he knew it wasn’t going to help, but he was finding it harder and harder to care. “People would have died, and the op would have gotten boxed. Then, in a few years, someone would have opened it up again, more people would die, and it would get cold-boxed. It wasn’t going to be a win. It was going to be a bloodbath.”

“And how do you know that?” Captain Andrews’ voice came from over Stiles shoulder, and he backed up so he could see both her and Davis. “What the fuck do you know, Stilinski?”

Stiles resisted the urge to start pulling at his hair, but barely. This wasn’t how he’d wanted this to go. He should have just kept to his “I don’t know,” no matter how much of an obvious lie it was. 

“I just know,” Stiles said. “Sometimes there are things you know that you can’t share.” He stared at Captain Andrews. “You know that just as well as I do.”

“What I know,” Captain Andrews said, “is that some branch called the ‘Midnight Division’ now has our case, and we need to drop it. Underwood wouldn’t even tell me which Assistant Director they answer to. Hell, I don’t think she even knew.”

“Well, I sure don’t know what that is, either,” Stiles said, crossing his arms. “It sounds like some scifi novel. What I do know is that if they’re better equipped to deal with this op, more power to them.”

“I’m glad you’re so interested,” Captain Andrews said, continuing to stare him down. “Because you’re being transferred over there. I didn’t have a say in that, either.”

Stiles paused, letting his jaw go slack. “What?” he asked.

“You heard me,” Captain Andrews said. “You’re being transferred. Head over to Underwood’s office.”

Stiles looked around. His coworkers were still staring. Davis’ eyebrows were approaching his hairline. “All right,” he said slowly. “What if I don’t want to transfer?”

Captain Andrews laughed. “I don’t think you have any more say in that than I did.”

Davis sat back in his chair. “Well, shit. We’ll never know now, will we?”

“I guess not,” Stiles said. He glanced around the room. “It’s been a pleasure.”

 

Underwood’s office was almost completely devoid of any sort of personal touch. It fit her personality perfectly. She was generally a pretty straightforward woman, who ruled her little set of departments under the rule that tough love was the best love.

Stiles was almost going to miss her. Almost.

“Stilinski,” Underwood greeted him as he walked into her office. “You’ve been transferred.”

Stiles stood in front of her desk. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. 

Underwood nodded and stood. “Follow me, please.”

Stiles was led out of Underwood’s office and to the elevator. CIA Headquarters was a large place, but it wasn’t particularly tall. At least, not compared to some of the FBI offices. Underwood swiped her ID and punched the button for the eighth floor. Stiles had never been to the eighth floor. 

Mostly because you had to have special access.

When they exited the elevator, Underwood led Stiles down several hallways before stopping in front of an office door. The plaque on the door read, “James Hunter, Division Director.” Underwood knocked on the door before a deep voice called out for them to enter.

Behind a large mahogany desk was a man with black hair and black eyes who was wearing a suit that was definitely not off-the-rack.

“Hunter,” Underwood greeted.

“Director Underwood,” the man -- James Hunter, presumably -- replied.

“This is Agent Mieczyslaw Stilinski,” she said, pronouncing Stiles’ first name better than even he did. It was impressive. “You put in for his transfer yesterday.”

“Yes, I did,” Hunter replied. “Thanks for bringing him.”

Underwood raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t given much of a choice,” she said sarcastically, startling Stiles. Apparently, no one had been given any say.

Hunter smiled and shrugged. “Sorry about that,” he said, not looking particularly remorseful.

“Well, he’s here,” Underwood said. “I’ll leave the rest to you.”

“Of course,” Hunter said.

Underwood turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

Hunter turned his smile on Stiles. “Please, have a seat.”

Stiles shrugged off his messenger bag and set it next to one of the two leather chairs across the desk from Hunter. He sat slowly, keeping eye contact with Hunter as he did.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” Hunter said.

“Yes, sir,” Stiles replied, forcing himself not to cross his arms. His gut was telling him that appearing defensive was _really_ not a good idea.

“James,” Hunter -- James -- said. “No one in the division calls me ‘sir.’ It makes me feel old.”

“Sure,” Stiles said.

James smiled more widely. “Good.” He opened a folder on his desk. And Stiles saw a picture of himself. “Your record is really impressive. Senior analyst after three years. Nearly unprecedented.” He paused, but Stiles kept his mouth shut. “Natural talent isn’t something we like to take for granted. That said,” James continued, “I want _you_ to tell _me_ why you’re here.”

Stiles stared for a moment. “You took our case. I’m the one who broke it.” He paused. “I’m also the one who called it off.”

“Good. Why did you call it off?” James asked.

“It was too dangerous,” Stiles answered.

“Why?”

Stiles let himself consider everything that had happened that morning. The Midnight Division had taken their case; their case had been about a vampire all along. The Midnight Division had also taken Stiles, who had called off Jesse’s op because of said vampires. The only conclusion Stiles could come to, no matter how ridiculous, was that the Midnight Division knew about vampires.

And James Hunter wanted Stiles to admit that he did, too.

Fine. “The camera glare,” Stiles said. “It was persistent. It could have been contacts, but it wasn’t. The mark was a vampire. The renovations to the house were to build a den. Agent Kaplan would never have come back out of that basement.”

James smiled again. “I’m glad I wasn’t wrong about you. It would have been embarrassing to send you back, after everything I did to get you transferred.”

Stiles sighed. “The Midnight Division deals with the supernatural, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“It does,” James agreed. 

Stiles gave James another once over. “Would it matter to you at all if I said I wanted absolutely nothing to do with that bullshit?”

“Unfortunately,” James said, “no. Too few people know anything at all, and even fewer can recognize a vampire in less than twenty minutes through a recording.” He shrugged. “You’re stuck with us.”

“Fantastic,” Stiles said.

“For us, it is,” James said, shrugging. “Would you like to hear more about the Division, or bemoan your situation for a few more minutes?”

Stiles considered asking for the latter, but decided that pissing off his new boss probably wasn’t his best choice. Not that he’d really been having a day of particularly good choices. “If I’m going to work for it, hearing about the Division sounds like a good plan,” Stiles said. “Though I’m curious as to whether I’m working for the Division itself, or a department.”

“The Division is the department,” James said. “Rather, we only have one department, and everyone works together. We have different teams for different things, but only one general body.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “What are the teams?”

“We have a Research team, a Task Force team, a Local Liaison team, and a Suspicious Activity team,” James answered. “They do what you’d expect. Research finds information on various supernatural creatures, the Task Force deals with them if we have to, the Local Liaison team works to build relationships with various supernatural groups, and Suspicious Activity looks for suspicious activity.”

“Which team am I on?” Stiles asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” James said. “You obviously have knowledge, which indicates Research or Suspicious Activity, but that doesn’t feel right.”

Stiles waited for James to continue. When he didn’t, Stiles asked, “Then where do you think I’ll fit?”

“Your file reads like a cornucopia of skills. Leadership, research, quick thinking, trouble-spotting. All of those could put you anywhere in my Division,” James answered. “For now, I just want you to wander between teams. Figure out which _you_ think suits you best.” James stood. “Now I think it’s time for you to meet them.”

Stiles stood and put his messenger bag back on his shoulder. “Sounds good,” he said.

 

Meeting the Midnight Division went about as well as Stiles had suspected it would. He sized them up; they sized him up. At least that was universal to the CIA. Change was dangerous until it was neatly labeled and put into its appropriate box. 

The Research team was made up of six analysts and led by a seventh, a Senior Analyst named Toby Jennings who was old enough to be Stiles’ grandfather. The Task Force was another six people, though they were all field agents. Stiles was surprised to find out that they almost always worked the field as a team. Their lead was a Senior Field Agent named Jessica Courtney, who was probably only five years Stiles’ senior, but had the look of someone immensely competent and no-nonsense. Local Liaisons was two men and a woman, and they had no leader. The lot of them looked more like politicians than either agents or analysts, but Stiles figured that made them even more right for the job. The suspicious activity team was made up of five analysts who all worked together. James claimed they didn’t have a leader, but Stiles could see them gravitating toward a particular woman James named as Amelia Cooper. 

As in the two other departments where Stiles had worked, there were a few people who didn’t fit into any particular team. James’ assistant, Aaron Jacobson, two analysts who James said did a little bit of everything, and one agent James claimed “helped supervise.” Stiles relabeled that as “stood around making everyone feel like ants.” 

“Well?” James asked.

Stiles looked at him as everyone else in the room looked at Stiles. “It seems very efficient.”

James laughed. “It is.” He paused. “Start with the Research team. See if you can add anything to our database.” James gave Stiles a sharp look. “I doubt very much that vampires are the extent of your knowledge.”

Stiles glanced back at the Research team and shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”

What Stiles could do, it turned out, was significantly more than he thought. Within ten minutes, Stiles had added two new categories to the database and filled them with at least a dozen different supernatural beings. Another twenty were added to their previously existing categories. Stiles didn’t take the time to populate the files; he had all the data in his convenient little folder at home, and told the team as much. 

Surprisingly, no one seemed to be feeling like their toes had been stepped on. Jennings gave Stiles a look that Stiles interpreted as impressed, despite the fact that it was just a slight wrinkling around Jennings’ eyes. 

After adding categories to the team’s database, Stiles leafed through the categories that already existed, and either passed them by or added details. A few hours into the task, Stiles realized that most of the details that were missing were ones he’d only ever learned in the Bestiary. Apparently the CIA had never gotten one of the digital copies. 

While Stiles was working, he made notes to himself about what to bring in the next day to add to the system. It didn’t make sense to keep everything he knew to himself.

Of course, there were some things that even the CIA didn’t need to know.

 

Stiles didn’t get back to his apartment until nearly seven o’clock that night. He dropped his duffle bag next to the door and just stood still for a moment.

His day went through his head slowly. He’d taken it in stride. Worked through it. Been a professional.

He’d had twelve years of avoidance smashed to pieces in less than twelve hours.

“Shit.”


	4. In Which Stiles is Pushed Right into the Deep End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, two chapters today, even though I said I'd probably stop doing that. Oops. This only happened because these two chapters were actually one in my outline, and they wound up running away from me (twenty pages of running away, if we're being honest). This first one is quite a bit of exposition, sorry. The next one, on the other hand, only has a little bit, and is a whole lot more exciting. I promise. At least, it's not totally exposition. Yay!

When Stiles arrived at headquarters the next day, he found that his ID had been changed to give him access to the third floor. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with that.

He walked into the Division’s war room -- apparently they called it that, the “war room” -- and headed toward the Research workstations. Jennings was already there, typing away at something. He gave Stiles a nod when Stiles sat down at an unclaimed workstation and pulled the flash drive he’d prepped the night before out of his bag. He’d finished booting up the database when he caught James walking up to him.

“If I had any doubts about you, they’re gone,” James said, leaning against Stiles’ unofficial workstation. “I think we need to have a chat.”

Stiles had learned the day before that James had another office inside the main Division space. Stiles recognized a lot of the books on the walls as things he’d used for research in the past.

Some of them didn’t even ring a bell. 

James gestured for him to sit down, then took a seat himself in a large chair near his desk. Stiles sat.

“Where did you come across everything you just showed Jennings?” James asked. “That database was started decades ago.”

Stiles paused. “Have you ever let a supernatural being take a look at it?” he asked.

James raised an eyebrow. “No,” he replied. 

“You should,” Stiles said. “They all know something different.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” James said. “It doesn’t really answer my question, however. Where did you learn all of that?”

“A lot of it was from supernatural beings,” Stiles said, shrugging. “Like I said. The rest was good old fashioned research and some trial and error.”

James raised his eyebrows. “Trial and error?”

Stiles had spent a good chunk of time the night before, in between editing information, thinking about how he was going to explain how he knew what he knew. He didn’t think that “it’s a hobby” would cut it. His solution had been to stick as close to the truth as possible without putting anyone in danger.

Or having to think about any of the things he really didn’t want to.

“Yes,” Stiles said. “When I was in high school, my best friend got turned into a werewolf by a deranged psychopath. He joined the local pack, and I went with.”

“You’re a member of a werewolf pack?” James asked, steepling his hands in front of him.

Stiles shook his head. “For a while, yeah, I was. I’m not anymore. I haven’t been in years.”

“And you learned all of that,” James gestured to the Research area, “while you were with the pack?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “The place I grew up was seated on top of a sort of supernatural beacon.” He paused to let himself smile at the old joke. “Like the Hellmouth in Buffy.”

James let out a huff of laughter. “Nice reference,” he said. “How long were you with the pack?”

“About two years,” Stiles said, waiting for the fall out.

“Two years?” James asked, sitting up straighter in his chair. “You collected all of that data in two years?”

“It was necessary. If we didn’t learn, we would have been killed. Staying alive is a pretty good motivator.”

“I can’t disagree with that,” James said. “Who did most of the research?”

“I did,” Stiles said.

“I figured,” James said, nodding. “Was there anyone else?”

Stiles recognized the digging. He wasn’t giving anyone away, no matter how he felt. “The other members of the pack helped. We had a few hunters on our side, and they had a long history of knowledge and resources at their disposal.”

“I can imagine,” James said. “Are you still in contact?”

“No.”

James raised an eyebrow at Stiles’ short response. “Not at all?”

“Not even a little,” Stiles said, crossing his legs in lieu of his arms. He still wasn’t sure that defensive actions would sic James on him like a pit bull.

“Is that usual, when leaving a pack?” James asked.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “People don’t usually leave packs. Packs are family.” He paused. “So when you do, it’s for a damn good reason.”

James hummed. “Are you going to tell me that reason?”

“No,” Stiles said. “Not even if you fired me.”

“I’m sure you know we could find out,” James said.

“That’s up to you. You’re just not hearing it from me,” Stiles said.

James nodded. “We’ll respect your privacy.” He put up a finger. “At least until it becomes necessary to do otherwise.” He paused for a while, obviously giving Stiles time to respond. When Stiles didn’t, he continued, “So this means you’ve had a lot of supernatural contact, both good and bad.”

“Yes,” Stiles said.

“You know how to communicate with them.”

“The ones that can be communicated with, anyway,” Stiles agreed.

Smiling, James said, “Then I was right. You don’t belong on any of my teams.”

Stiles pulled his eyebrows together. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Float,” James said. “Help wherever we need it.” He gestured to the room at large. “Do what I tell you.”

“All right,” Stiles said. “What are you telling me?”

“Right now,” James said, smiling, “I want you to finish updating the database. Then, I want you to go work with Jess and Jason on the vampire issue.” Jason was one of the Local Liaison agents. Stiles could only assume that when James said “Jess,” he meant Jessica, though Stiles couldn’t imagine calling her anything but her full name.

 

Stiles could only guess that both Jessica and Jason had been briefed that Stiles would be joining them, as when he headed over, they greeted him politely. 

“Stilinski,” Jessica said, putting out a hand. “I’m Jessica Courtney. I know James introduced us all yesterday, but I’m not going to assume you memorized all that.”

Stiles shook her hand and replied, “Call me Stiles. I do remember you from yesterday, though I’ll admit I haven’t quite gotten everyone yet. I’m good on Research, though.”

Jessica nodded.

Jason stretched out a hand next. “Jason Curtis,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Stiles said, sticking to Jason’s level of formality.

“So you’re going to help us with our vampire problem, are you?” Jessica asked, sitting down on top of a desk near where they’d congregated.

“I’m going to try,” Stiles said. “I’ve dealt with them before, but I’m not going to even pretend it was a success.”

Jason nodded. “Same. We have yet to defeat any vampires, alone or in groups, or to get any conversation started.”

Stiles shook his head. “The fact that you tried conversation is impressive. The last vampire I tried to talk to tried to tear my face off.”

Grinning, Jason said, “Same. Fortunately Jess and the team were there.” He sat down in one of the swivel chairs near Jessica, some of his rigidity fading. 

“That den’s going to be a problem,” Jessica said, pulling a chair toward Stiles with her foot. When he sat, she continued, “We’ve dealt with a few lone vampires, or a roving group, but never an organized community.”

“I’ve heard the loners are actually more dangerous,” Stiles said, shrugging. “I’ve only ever dealt with a den. One tried to move into my hometown when I was a kid.”

Jessica raised her eyebrows. “That sounds fun.”

“Yeah,” Stiles replied. “Trying to study for midterms and research ways to actually kill vampires at the same time was a bitch.”

Jason snorted. “That, I believe.”

“So how’d you do it?” Jessica asked. “You’re still alive, so you must have gotten rid of them somehow.”

“Pack of werewolves,” Stiles said. “Very territorial. We just pissed the hell out of them, then killed a few, and they left.”

“You killed a few?” Jason asked. “How?”

“There are only two ways,” Stiles said. “Wooden stake to the heart, or beheading.”

“We knew that,” Jessica said, waving a hand. “Jason means how did you accomplish it?”

“Again,” Stiles said, “werewolves. Vampires are faster and stronger, but a good strategy and some very pissed werewolves are enough to at least put up a fight. It helps that the wolves are actually strong enough to get the stakes through their ribcages.” Stiles ran a hand through his hair. “Boy do the movies make that seem easier than it actually is.”

“So you fought supes with supes?” Jessica asked. “How did you get them to do that?”

Stiles gave himself a mental push, then said, “I was a member of the pack.”

Both Jessica and Jason gave him looks of surprise at that. “You’re a werewolf?” Jason asked, sitting back.

“No,” Stiles said. “But my best friend in high school was. I got pulled along for the ride.”

“Damn,” Jessica said. “You’ve gotta have some stories.”

“More than you know,” Stiles said.

 

After at least two hours of vampire history lessons, and another hour of coming up with plans A through D, Stiles, Jason, and Jessica had a plan of attack.

Rather, they had a plan B of attack. Plan A was to get the vampires to speak to Stiles and Jason. How Stiles had gotten wrangled into vampire ambassador duty he wasn’t entirely sure, but it had happened.

The plan was set for the next day, as satellite imagery still had the mark -- maybe Stiles ought to start using her name, though he really didn’t want to -- at the house. Stiles left work with the distinct feeling that this time, he really might get his face clawed off.

 

The next morning, Stiles was at work before the nighttime janitors had even finished their rounds. Stiles’ gut told him today was going to be a shitshow. Stiles’ gut was rarely wrong (except about burritos, they were delicious, and awkward bowel movements weren’t going to change that). 

It’d always been Stiles’ opinion that if a day was going to be a shitshow, he might as well face it head on, and that meant going in as prepared as possible.

Once he’d let himself into the Division office, he wandered over to the terminal he’d been officially assigned the day before. He had turned it on and begun the security boot before he noticed that Jennings had beaten him here -- or never left. Stiles let the security boot run and headed toward Jennings’ desk.

“You’re here early,” Jennings said, not looking up from the file on his computer. With just a glance, all Stiles could tell was that it was some sort of field record, and it was heavily redacted.

“Same to you,” Stiles answered, dropping himself into the seat next to Jennings and rolling it over. “What are you working on?”

Jennings finally turned to Stiles and raised an eyebrow. “Probably what you were wanting to work on, too, kid.”

Stiles grinned. “Fair enough.” He gestured to the screen. “What’s that?”

“The mission report from our last vampire op.” Jennings gestured with a quick motion to the computer. “As you can see, someone from brass got their hands on it.”

“Do we have a paper copy?” Stiles asked.

“No. At least, not that I’m aware of.” He shrugged. “James might have one. If he does, it’s going to take more than asking nicely to get him to share it.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Even if it helps keep his agents alive?”

Jennings shrugged again. “There have been only two new members of the team since then, including you. Memory will likely serve us best.” He gestured back to the document on his screen. “I’m just being paranoid.”

“If I’ve learned anything from the CIA, it’s that paranoid is probably a good thing,” Stiles said, sliding the chair back to its original space and standing up. “I’m going to go back over all the reference materials on vampires we’ve collected. Maybe I’ll remember something else useful.”

“If you can do that, kid, drinks are on me,” Jennings said, giving Stiles a crooked grin. “If you come back, anyway.”

Stiles let out a laugh. “Thanks for that,” he said. “I’m an analyst for a reason.”

Jennings gave him a once-over. “You’re fit, you have good instincts. I don’t see any reason why you won’t be just as capable in the field.” He looked Stiles in the eyes. “It’s not all about muscles.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles said. He smiled. “But the muscles don’t hurt.”

Jennings turned back to his computer screen. “No, they don’t,” he said.

 

Stiles didn’t remember anything new, but reading back over the file on vampires, regardless of it being mostly his own research, was helpful all on its own. It gave him a good mindset he could carry with him into the field. Namely, this was a fuck-terrible decision.

James called everyone to attention about twenty minutes before it was time to leave for the op. 

“Today’s operation isn’t a military action; it’s an exercise in diplomacy.” He nodded toward where Stiles, Jason, and Jessica were sitting together, having been running through the plan for about the twentieth time. “That said, we’re not sending our people in without backup. The rest of the Task Force will be on standby at the end of the block, with Kevin on point. Everyone else,” he said, pausing to look around the room, “will be giving Stilinski, Jess, and Jason 100% of their attention. Anything even looks like it _might_ go wrong, they’re out of there. The moment it looks like they won’t be able to get out, the Task Force will go in. If this op fails, it’s not going to be because we weren’t ready. And if it fails, we’re not going to lose any of our people to that failure. Defense and running away are our fallbacks.”

Stiles looked to Jessica and raised an eyebrow. “I like to call them strategic retreats,” she said. Stiles laughed lightly.

James pressed a button on the small remote in his hand, and the main screen came up with the details of the op. “If you don’t know these by heart, inside and out, I’m not sure why you’re even on our team. Learn them. Anything even steps into the fallback parameters, get them out of there.” He clicked up a picture of Angelica Basil, the vampire Stiles had been tracking with his last team. “This is a vampire. Vampires are stronger than we are. They’re faster than we are. They have enhanced senses. This means there will be absolute silence on the comms unless we sound a retreat.” He glanced over at Stiles. “The Electronic Virus Containment Department got lucky. None of the footage suggests that Ms. Basil was aware of their communication.” He paused. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t, and just hiding it well. They haven’t left their den, which means even if she did hear them, she didn’t take them as a credible threat.”

Stiles had thought about that. Once he’d realized she was a vampire, he was almost positive she had heard every word that had been said through Jesse’s comms. That meant they’d likely lost the element of surprise. Her lack of reaction meant she didn’t care. They were humans. They weren’t a threat. Stiles wasn’t really fond of that idea.

“We aren’t going to make that mistake. We’re going to be upfront with her. She’ll know who we are, and what we’re trying to do. That’s the point. We will still not break comm silence. She doesn’t need more information than she already has,” James continued. He changed the picture on the screen to a basic work-up on vampires. “Thanks to Stilinski, we have a more complete picture of vampires, their strengths, and their weaknesses. We’ll use this in any way we can, and the op team has studied it extensively. I want everyone in this room to know it just as well.”

He gestured to Jessica, which was apparently her cue to take over. “Jason, Stiles, and I will take a company car to the house and introduce ourselves to Ms. Basil. We’ll be using the basic codename protocol. For purposes of those recording and monitoring, I will be Amanda Boyleston, Jason will be Logan Cooper, and Stiles will be Benjamin Gray. At no point will our real names be revealed, even in the event of retreat.”

She waved her hand and James changed the contents of the screen again, this time landing on the outline of his, Jason’s, and Jessica’s roles on the op.

“Jason will be our diplomatic liaison. He’ll pull primary interaction. Stiles will provide backup in that regard. I’ll be as unimtimidating as possible and fake the analyst and data provider,” Jessica said, gesturing to the screen. “We have been authorized by the Director to offer them several deals, the primary of which is an alliance with the CIA and a cease in killing in return for an unlimited supply of blood. Ideally, we’ll gain them as allies who can help us with rogue vampires and subsequent negotiations. Realistically, we’ll take what we can get, so long as we can convince them to stop killing innocents.”

James cleared his throat to bring attention back to him. “If there are any questions, speak now. If not, get to work.”

No one responded. Stiles tried to take the silence as a good sign, and not one that meant the rest of the room had already written them off as dead. He didn’t do very well.

“Then let’s get started,” James said, turning and walking back to his office.


	5. In Which Stiles Has a Conversation With a Vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said last chapter, this is really just the second half of that chapter. There's still exposition, but there's less.
> 
> Also, this chapter is all one conversation. I'm really not sure how that happened. (I mean, I am, but generally conversations are ten pages long. Even if they do start hinting about the exciting stuff.)
> 
> But also: warning for that off-camera major character death. It's time to find out who it was.

It felt like no time had passed when Stiles, Jason, and Jessica parked their company-issued Chrysler 300 outside the house. Or, as Stiles had taken to calling it, the vampire death trap. He’d been stuffed into nice slacks, a button-up shirt, and a sports coat. Not quite a suit, but close enough that Stiles felt awkward. Sure, he dressed nicely for work, but never anything past business casual.

Jason was dressed about the same as Stiles, only his walk and demeanor owned the attire in a way Stiles was pretty sure he never could. Jessica was wearing a nice sundress and wedge heels. Stiles had absolutely no idea why anyone thought that was a good idea.

Then again, he was pretty sure Jessica could still kill him with her pinky, so maybe it didn’t matter. He was also 100% positive she had at least a small arsenal under her flowy skirt. 

Jason and Stiles had both been fitted with a company handgun, but they’d both chosen to leave them in the car, as there was nowhere to stash them on their persons that wouldn’t at some point be visible. 

Besides, Jessica with the pinky. 

Jason rapped smartly on the door to the house. It was a few minutes before there was an answer, but when the door was pulled open, Angelica Basil was nowhere in sight. Instead, an attractive man who looked about forty was standing there giving them a questioning look.

Jason rolled with it. “Hello,” he said, putting out his hand to shake. The man seemed amused, but shook Jason’s hand. “We’re looking for a Ms. Angelica Basil. Is this her residence?”

“It is,” the man said. “Come in while I fetch her for you.” He stepped back and gestured them into the house. 

Not a good sign. Generally, people ask _why_ you want to see someone before they just say yes. You could be an axe murderer. Not that vampires would really be too worried about it.

Maybe it wasn’t as bad a sign as Stiles thought. At least, he hoped.

After they entered the foyer, the man continued, “I’m Timothy Larsen, her fiance.”

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Larsen,” Jason said, smiling. “I’m Logan Cooper. These two are my associates, Ben Gray and Amanda Boyleston.”

“Is Angelica expecting you?” Larsen asked, gesturing them into the large kitchen area. “Can I get you some water?” he asked, as soon as they stepped in.

“Water would be lovely, thank you,” Jessica said, smiling. 

As Larsen went to the refrigerator and pulled out three bottles of water, Jason replied, “No, I don’t believe Ms. Basil is expecting us.”

Larsen raised his eyebrows before asking, “Then may I ask why you’re here?”

There it was, the question normal people asked. Stiles was unreasonably assured by this, though he tried his best not to let it show on his face. 

“We’re from the CIA,” Jason answered bluntly. “We’d like to make a business proposition.”

Stiles could sense Larsen’s demeanor change. “Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s refreshing. I was sure you’d have some strange story, like the last fellow.” 

If they’d doubted Angelica Basil had made Jesse, they sure didn’t anymore.

“I’m not sure what you might have to offer, but I’m sure Angelica will be interested in hearing it,” Larsen said, moving to leave the room. “Stay here, please. I’d prefer if you didn’t wander.”

It was only a minute before Larsen returned with Angelica. She was dressed much like she had been before, in a sundress similar to Jessica’s, perfectly put together.

“I hear you’re CIA,” she started. “I didn’t think you’d be back, after you pulled your last man so harshly.” She sat down at the small, round kitchen table near the windows. “Please, join me.”

Jason was the first to seat himself at the table, choosing a seat directly opposite Angelica. Stiles recognized it as the best position for eye contact. He sat down to Jason’s right, and Jessica took Jason’s left.

“Thank you,” Jason said, smiling.

Larsen took a seat in a chair that was one seat away from both Jessica and Angelica. It was a clearly defensive positive, but he didn’t seem agitated. Stiles took that as a good sign. As good a sign as they were going to get, anyway.

“Timothy told me that you’re here with a business proposal?” Angelica asked.

“Yes,” Jason returned. “On behalf of the CIA, and the United States Government in general, we wanted to speak with you.”

“With me?” Angelica asked. “Or with my den?”

Jason smiled. “Your den, really, or whoever is authorized to make decisions on their behalf.”

Angelica smiled. “Timothy was right. You _are_ quite refreshingly honest. I appreciate that.” She drummed her nails on the table once. “I am authorized to negotiate on behalf of the den, but not to make any final decisions. Only the den leader can do that.”

“Would you prefer that we speak to your den leader, then?” Jason asked.

“Oh, no, no, I can take your proposal to her quite as well, and I wouldn’t want to bother her if what you have to say is utterly useless,” Angelica replied.

Jason laughed. “Honesty for honesty. I appreciate that, too.”

“Good,” Angelica said. “That will make this much easier. But first, introductions are only polite.”

“Of course,” Jason said. “I’m Agent Logan Cooper, field liaison and negotiator.” He smiled. “You can just call me Logan. I’ve always found the Agent business a mouthful.”

“And, as you must know, I am Angelica Basil,” Angelica replied. “You may, of course, simply call me Angelica.”

“Thank you,” Jason said. “My associates are Agent Ben Gray--” he gestured to stiles, “and Agent Amanda Boyleston.”

“Amanda, please,” Jessica put in, smiling.

“How very nice to meet you,” Angelica replied. She turned to Stiles. “And what ought I call you, Agent Gray?”

Stiles gave her a shrug. “Ben is fine.”

“Ben it is,” she said, shifting slightly in her seat and crossing her legs.

To say Stiles was surprised by how well this was going would be an understatement. To be fair, Stiles’ only experience with vampires had been violent from the start, and these seemed to exist fairly quietly. Otherwise, the Division probably would have found and tracked their activity before Stiles had ever been brought in. 

Angelica turned back to Jason. “Let’s hear your proposal,” she said, smiling. 

“It’s pretty simple,” Jason said. “We’d like to create a working relationship with your den. An alliance, if you like. We’ve run into rogue vampires before, and the body counts have always been higher than we’d like before we get them under control.” 

A good tactic, Stiles knew. A polite request, followed by an equally polite statement of the Division’s ability to deal with vampires if necessary.

“We believe that a good working relationship with a den would be an asset in these circumstances,” Jason continued. “We can’t imagine you want rogue vampires running around on killing sprees any more than we do. It puts your secrecy at risk and likely stains the name of all vampires.”

Angelica nodded. “You are correct in that assumption. Our den works tirelessly to put down other vampires who might disrupt our comfortable existence here.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Jason said. “Our full proposal is this: we would like you to ally with us. Within that alliance, we would ask that you help us with any vampire-related problems that we have, either diplomatically, or adding to our force. In return, we offer reciprocal assistance and the government’s assurance that you will be supplied with as much blood as you need throughout the duration of the alliance.” He paused. “We would also ask that if your den currently acquires blood through the killing of US citizens, you stop, and allow us to provide you the blood you require.”

Angelica stared at Jason for a few moments. “That proposal asks much of us,” she said, drumming her nails once more across the table’s surface. “I see the merit in it, as well as your motivation in proposing it. I will leave the final decision of its merits to our den leader.” She paused. “However, you should know that our den already has a blood supply, legally acquired, that keeps us perfectly satisfied. We do not kill humans.”

Jason’s smile didn’t falter for a moment. Stiles was impressed. It took quite a bit of effort for him personally not to cuss out loud at that.

Then something occurred to him. She had said “acquired legally.” No blood bank was legally allowed to supply blood to anywhere but a hospital without government authorization. If the vampires were running their own blood bank and skimming off the top, that was equally illegal.

That really only left one conclusion.

“You’re the Eastern Emissaries, aren’t you?” Stiles asked, drawing both Angelica and Timothy’s attention to him. He caught a quirk of Jason’s eyebrows to his left, which Stiles was pretty sure was Jason’s version of falling straight out of his seat.

Angelica’s smile turned into a laugh. “You’re quite quick, aren’t you?” she asked, looking Stiles up and down. She spared a glance back at Jason, then returned to Stiles. “And based on their reactions, your compatriots here have no idea what the Emissaries even are.”

Stiles glanced to his left, where Jason had fixed his expression, but Jessica had squared her jaw.

“Apparently not?” Stiles guessed, shrugging.

Angelica laughed again. “I like you,” she said. “I’ve met only a handful of humans who’ve ever even heard of the Emissaries, let alone been able to recognize one.”

Stiles shrugged again. “They don’t come up often. Out of curiosity, who is your government liaison?”

“Senator Berkshire,” Angelica answered.

“So our entire proposal is effectively irrelevant,” Stiles said.

“Oh, no,” Angelica said. “We enforce the laws upon our own kind, but hold no affiliation with yours outside the necessary. An active alliance would be new, and possibly beneficial for our den.” She shrugged. “And our Emissary status.”

“Pardon,” Jessica said politely, “but if anyone would care to explain Emissaries, that would be great. Even the Cliff’s Notes version.”

Angelica raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure your colleague would have explained later. Your impatience is less than impressive.” Stiles grimaced. “But as you have asked, I see no reason not to answer your question.” She settled further into her chair. “So long as you don’t have a greater desire to do so, Ben?”

“All yours,” Stiles said, leaning back in his chair. 

“Shall I assume you’ll be able to fill in the details for them later? Or ought I to be more thorough?” Angelica smiled politely. “I wouldn’t want a possible lack of knowledge to cause any misunderstandings.”

Stiles ignored the dig. “Nope, I’ve got it. I’ve spent some time with the Western Emissary.”

“Interesting,” Angelica said. “Even I haven’t yet had the chance to meet the new Western Emissary?”

“New?” Stiles asked. “How new?”

“Cavendish retired from his position last year, and a new Emissary was appointed,” Angelica said, “as per policy.”

“Then I’m as behind as you are,” Stiles said. “It’s Cavendish who I was familiar with.”

Angelica shrugged. “Unfortunate. I would have liked to learn more about this Derek Hale.”

Stiles new Angelica could hear it when his breathing hitched and his heart rate picked up. There wasn’t going to be any point in lying to her. 

Unsurprisingly, Angelica’s eyes grew a little wider and she smiled. “You recognize the name,” she said.

“I do,” Stiles agreed.

Angelica turned to Jason and Jessica. “I apologize. I try not to insert any readings into my conversations with those who possess no such abilities.”

Jason shrugged. “Hey, no worries. You can’t help what your biology can do.”

“That is a very progressive way of thinking,” Angelica said. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Jason said.

“Before I quiz your colleague, I ought to give my explanation of the Emissaries, oughtn’t I? That way you can appreciate my questions as much as I.” She smiled.

“That would be very much appreciated,” Jessica said. Stiles almost grinned at the formality Jessica was using. In the admittedly short time he’d known her, she’d usually been more casual. Diplomacy was a strange thing.

Angelica inclined her head. “The Emissary system came into being around the time of the Industrial Revolution. Many different nonhuman species had emigrated into North America, and most were behaving and keeping to themselves quite nicely. Unfortunately, the rest were taking advantage of the newness of the country and the many sparsely-populated areas in order to simply do whatever they wanted.”

She looked toward Larsen and smiled. He rolled his eyes, but continued to sit silently. Stiles stored that away under “interesting and possibly useful.”

“Some of the largest and most powerful groups of non-humans came together to discuss this, as well as the preservation of our ways of life. Name, outside the eyes of humans. While we may be more powerful, I’m sure you’re quite aware that we are outnumbered among your kind at least one hundred to one.” Angelica gave Jason a wry grin.

“That we do,” Jason agreed.

“And so, our secrecy remained of paramount importance. That first group came up with a set of rules for the non-human creatures of North America. Nothing too restrictive or too complicated. They’ve become more so over the years, but that’s only to be expected. We made the decision to reveal ourselves to your human government, as well as the Canadian government, several decades ago.” Angelica smiled. “It was a decision that has benefitted us greatly.”

“What were the first rules?” Jessica asked, shifting further back into her chair. 

“There were only three. The first was the most obvious: no killing humans in any noticeable numbers.” She put up a hand at Jessica, and Stiles saw that Jessica had been about to interject. “That has of course changed to no killing humans in general, but back then, we were less interested in your complete protection, and more interested in our own.”

Stiles caught the “we” that Angelica had used, and made a note of that as well. Angelica spoke as though she had been there. If she was a liaison for the Eastern Emissary, it was possible that she had been. That meant that she could be either a very powerful ally, or a debilitating enemy. With everything she had said to that point, Stiles was leaning toward the first, but the part of him that looked for every possibility left the second open, just in case.

“The second,” Angelica continued, “was that any in-fighting among non-humans was to be kept out of human awareness. We are not all allied. That is simply an impossibility. Too many of us are long-lived, and even more of us are quick to anger and slow to forgive.” She shrugged. “That is still the rule. If we fight amongst ourselves, it is of no concern to anyone but us, so long as it doesn’t affect our secrecy and collaboration with the few humans who know of us. We have had a long agreement with the North American governments that this must be maintained, and that humans have no jurisdiction over non-human affairs unless those affairs directly affect humans.”

That made sense. Cavendish had never stepped in to help or hurt the pack. He had simply introduced himself when they had established themselves well enough to merit his attention. It would have been nice to have some sort of oversight for all the ridiculous shit that had happened in Beacon Hills, but he did understand. Of course, pretty much everything that they’d fought had seriously interfered with the humans of Beacon Hills, as well.

How they’d all remained oblivious was a mystery Stiles was never going to solve.

“The final rule,” Angelica said, “was that Emissaries shall be appointed by the law-abiding non-humans in their specific jurisdictions. No Emissary was to be appointed by the last, though they were welcome to give their opinion. Allowing for one genetic line or species to gain that much power would have defeated the purpose of the entire negotiation. After the rules were established, it was decided that there would be five Emissaries, and that their conglomerate would simply be called the Counsel. The five Emissaries were chosen from those that had gathered, and were appointed to the East, West, North, South, and Central regions of the continent.”

“And your den is the Eastern Emissary,” Jason said, then paused. “Or rather, your den leader is.”

Angelica shook her head. “It doesn’t work quite like that. Yes, the den leader is the Emissary, but the den itself is granted the enforcement power, and so we all act in the capacity of Emissary in different circumstances.”

Jason glanced at Stiles. “Do you know who the rest of the Emissaries are?”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know Angelica was an Emissary. They don’t really share that. I only knew Cavendish because he introduced himself when he decided we were important enough.”

“So you can give your people the rest of the information, then?” Angelica asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I have a jump drive with the code.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “Will you now answer my questions?”

“It only seems polite,” Stiles said. “You’ve answered all of ours.”

Angelica smiled broadly. “Fantastic.” She glanced over at Larsen, but he didn’t say anything. “You know the new Western Emissary.”

“Yes,” Stiles said.

“How?” she asked. 

Stiles thought for a moment. There were quite a few ways to answer that question truthfully and Stiles wanted to pick the best one. If there was a best one. They all seemed pretty crap.

Mostly honest it was. “I was a member of his pack.”

Angelica’s eyebrows raised. “You’re human,” she said.

“Yes,” Stiles replied. “I am. The pack was unconventional.”

“And you’ve said ‘was’ twice now,” Angelica said.

“I have. I’m no longer a member of the pack.” Stiles clenched his jaw a little, then released it. It had taken twelve hours to shove him back into the world of the non-human, and only seventy-two to make him pull out all the memories he’d spent years trying to avoid. This probably wouldn’t qualify for Stiles’ “worst week ever,” but it was up there.

“Unusual,” Angelica said. “Were you banished?”

“No,” Stiles said. “I left.”

“More unusual,” Angelica continued. “Why?”

“There was a disagreement,” Stiles said.

Angelica shrugged. “I suppose that particular is your business. I do trust you will explain it later if it helps me gain information on Mr. Hale.”

Stiles had to physically stop himself from laughing at “Mr. Hale.” Derek had hated being called that. 

And that thought made it a lot easier to keep from laughing.

“I doubt it will. It wasn’t anything the pack did,” Stiles said. “At least, not in any larger scheme.”

Angelica inclined her head. “I will not disturb your privacy, as you have not disturbed mine.”

“And we won’t,” Stiles said. “What you do is your business.” He paused. “Unless what you do is kill humans, in which case we really will disturb your privacy.”

Laughing, Angelica replied, “Of course. I would expect no less.” She smiled. “So. Tell me about Derek Hale.”

“What do you want to know?” Stiles asked. “I’m not going to give you his life story, if that’s what you’re going for.”

Angelica waved a hand, much like Jessica had during their pre-op briefing. “Oh, no. I’m sure I wouldn’t care. I want to know what kind of leader he is. Specifically, how suited he is to the position of Western Emissary. I’m sure he wouldn’t have been appointed if the Western non-humans didn’t respect him, but respect can be earned in many ways.”

Stiles couldn’t deny that. “Yeah, it can. I have to tell you that I haven’t seen Derek, or any of the pack, in more than eleven years.”

“Eleven years ago, you would have been a child,” Angelica said. “He is the sort who would bring a child into a werewolf pack?”

“Bring is definitely the wrong word,” Stiles said, letting himself smile a little. “A friend of mine was bitten by a rogue Alpha, and I went along for the ride. I got forcibly thrown out quite a few times, but I wasn’t leaving my friend alone with someone we didn’t know. Derek only stopped throwing me out when I proved to be useful, and also annoyed him to the point where he avoided interaction to whatever extent possible.”

“I do not believe that story had the effect you wished it to have,” Angelica said, drumming her nails once on the table. Stiles was beginning to think that might be her version of an irritated tic.

“Maybe not, but Derek wasn’t actually the Alpha at that point. He was just a beta who was too kind to leave a sixteen-year-old kid to deal with becoming a werewolf on his own. He became Alpha when we caught the rogue and killed him.” Stiles shrugged. “He grew into it. Only having one actual werewolf in the pack probably isn’t standard Alpha-becoming procedure.”

“Interesting,” she said. “What kind of Alpha did he become?”

“A good one,” Stiles said. “I’ve met quite a few. More than I’d like, really. Derek cares more. All the other Alphas I met cared about their packs, sure, but they also cared a lot for the power. Derek doesn’t.” Stiles shrugged. “At least, he didn’t eleven years ago. Time can change people, but I don’t think it can change who they are at their core. The Derek I knew was a good person, a good Alpha, and a great friend, once you got past the intense introversion, though he was working on that when I left.”

“You consider him honorable?” Angelica asked.

Stiles couldn’t keep a small huff of a laugh from coming out. “God, yes. He took responsibility for everything that happened in his territory, for everyone in his pack, and for everyone his pack loved. He was a bit of a control freak about it, if I’m honest.”

Angelica drummed her fingers once more against the table. “If you respect him so, then I really must know why you left,” she said. 

“It had nothing to do with Derek’s character, or the character of anyone in the pack,” Stiles said, feeling whatever small fondness had worked its way out dissipating. “It had to do with me.”

“But you weren’t banished,” Angelica said.

“No,” Stiles said. “They didn’t want me to leave. I left anyway.”

“Why?” Angelica asked again.

A part of Stiles knew that he was in this room to win over this vampire, and get an alliance for the CIA. Another part of Stiles wanted to tell her it was none of her damn business, and walk out. A third part just wanted to find a small space in which to sit and possibly hyperventilate for a while.

A little of the truth, then Stiles could box this back up. He knew Jason and Jessica would ask. He knew they’d talk to James. But those questions, Stiles could ignore. Them, he could tell to fuck off. The worst they could do was fire him. The worst a den of pissed off vampires could do was kill them all.

So: a little of the truth.

“My guardian died. I went to live somewhere else,” Stiles said.

Angelica gave him an assessing look. “Physical distance doesn’t necessitate leaving a pack.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Stiles said. “I wanted out. I wanted to get out of all of it. The fighting, the killing, the cover-ups. I just didn’t want to do it anymore.”

“You have placed yourself in a very strange occupation, if that is true,” Angelica said.

“You’re not wrong,” Stiles said, giving her half a smile.

After a moment’s pause, Angelica said, “All right. While it concerns me that Mr. Hale’s pack was subject to what was apparently a great deal of disagreement with other non-humans, I accept that as a human, it was likely too much for you to deal with.” She inclined her head to Stiles. “You are to be commended for overcoming that to help your government.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, mentally adding an “I think.”

Angelica drummed her fingers one more time on the table, then stood up. Stiles, Jason, and Jessica stood up with her, though Larsen remained seated. “I will take your proposal to our den leader. How shall I contact you?” Her attention was turned back to Jason, and Stiles relaxed some of the tension that had built up in his muscles. 

Professionally pulling a card from a pocket inside his sports coat, Jason passed it across the table. “You can reach our Division any time, day or night, at that number.”

“To whom should I speak?” Angelica asked. “As you all gave me false names -- for which I find no offense, as you weren’t to know how this conversations to go -- I should like to know which particular name will grant me a human with authority.”

Jason smiled. “Well, if everything you’ve said is true, then I doubt you’re going to hunt us down and kill us if you have our real names. You can have one of our real names, or at least something we answer to. If we make the alliance, you can have all of them.”

“That is both fair and acceptable,” Angelica said. To Stiles’ disappointment, though not really surprise, Angelica turned to him. “And what should I call you?”

Stiles gave her a crooked smile. “You should have given me time to put down a bet,” he said, and Angelica smiled. “I’m Stiles. It’s a nickname, yeah, but my first name’s pretty much unpronounceable, so it’s the one I answer to.”

“All right, Stiles,” Angelica said. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I do hope we can work together in the future.”

“Likewise,” Stiles said, putting out his hand for her to shake. 

“Let me walk you to the door,” Angelica said, gesturing out of the kitchen. 

After the goodbye pleasantries finished, Stiles made a point of sitting in the back of the car, though he’d had shotgun on the way in. He waited.

Once Jason and Jessica were seated, and Jessica had begun steering them back to Langley, Stiles figured his waiting was done.

He was right.

“So,” Jessica started, looking at Stiles through the rearview mirror.

“So,” Stiles repeated. Jessica opened her mouth to continue, but Stiles cut her off. He knew he’d feel bad for it later, but he was having trouble caring just at that moment. “Yes, I will bring in the jump drive tomorrow. No, I didn’t mean to keep it a secret, I honestly forgot about it. No, I will not answer any more questions about my former pack, or why I left, unless someone’s continued survival depends on the information. No, I would not appreciate anyone looking into it on their own.”

There were a few awkward minutes of silence in the car as Jessica pulled out of the residential area and onto the highway. 

Finally, Jason said, “Fair enough.” Then, “I think that went well. I’m going to say there’s about a 90% chance they agree. I have to admit, I didn’t think it was going to work.”


	6. In Which Stiles Learns About Beer O'Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear God, here, have another one. Apparently I can't stop writing. I'm being compelled or something. This chapter is also just one monster of a conversation. This is the chapter where I warn that I created OCs with actual personalities and backstories, and also the chapter where I have to make my first real warning.
> 
> Warning: age-appropriate angst.

When they returned to the Division, either everyone in the room had been listening to Stiles’ somewhat sassy response to Jessica, or they had selective memory loss, because no one brought up Stiles’ conversation with Angelica.

Stiles wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth by questioning it. He was going to continue boxing the entire thing and shoving it into the back closet of his memories.

He, Jason, and Jessica gave their in-person report and impressions to James in his office. When they were done, James said, “All right, good work today. All three of you can take the rest of the day off. I can’t imagine that wasn’t a little off-putting. Turn in your reports tomorrow.”

“Hell, yes,” Jason said, grinning. “We’ll absolutely do that.” He grabbed Stiles and Jessica by and arm each and hauled them out of James’ office. “You know what time that makes it?” he asked as they hit the center of the room.

Jessica sighed. Stiles had a feeling she knew what time that made it.

“Quitting time?” Stiles guessed, giving Jason an exaggerated guessing face. 

“Oh, no, my friend,” Jason said. Stiles didn’t comment that “my friend” might be a little strong. “Jess? What time is it?”

With a long-suffering look in Jason’s direction, Jessica replied in deadpan, “Beer o’clock.”

“That’s right!” Jason said. “Now grab your shit and meet me out front.” He gave both Stiles and Jessica a hearty pat on the back and went to his workstation to put on his coat and grab his briefcase.

Stiles looked over at Jessica. “What are the chances we can escape?” he asked.

“Oh, we could escape,” she said, watching Jason walk out of the Division. “We’d just have to deal with the fallout.” She glanced at Stiles. “Jason’s wrath is a polite, creepy thing. It’s just not worth it.”

“Okay, then,” Stiles said. “I guess I’m grabbing my shit.”

Jessica let out a laugh. “Yup.”

 

Jason took “beer o’clock” very seriously. He’d given both Stiles and Jessica the address to a local bar, and told them to meet him there. Stiles decided going along with it was probably his best plan, and popped the address into his GPS. The bar he rolled up to was probably one of the seediest, most disgusting places Stiles had ever seen. 

And Stiles had gone on MIT pub crawls.

That weren’t in Cambridge.

Still, he parked his car and slipped out, flipping his messenger bag over his shoulder as he went in. Jason had snagged them a table at the back and was nursing what Stiles hoped was his first beer. Anything else and Stiles was going to have to rethink the concept of socializing with his coworkers. Jason waved him over. Stiles grabbed a waitress to ask for whatever dark they had on tap, then headed to the table. Jessica arrived just as Stiles sat down and Jason waved her over, as well.

Once everyone was seated at the unbelievably sticky table -- Stiles didn’t want to know -- Jason put down his drink and spread his arms, like he was about to preach some new religion.

“All right, kids. We all know the rules of beer o’clock.” He glanced at Stiles. “But maybe we should go over them once more. Jess! What’s the cardinal rule of beer o’clock?”

Jessica gave Jason a Look, but said, “At beer o’clock, you only drink beer. Anything else can wait until anything else o’clock.”

“Perfect,” Jason said. He winked at Stiles. “The only other rule of beer o’clock is that you don’t drive drunk.” At Stiles’ look, he shrugged. “We’re federal agents. Also, James would kill us.”

At that moment, his and Jessica’s drinks arrived and were set in front of them. 

“Oh, look. Beer o’clock has officially hit the hour,” Jason said. He raised his beer. “A toast to a job well done.”

Jessica raised her drink, “That, I can toast to. Some of the shit you come up with, I absolutely can’t.”

They both looked at Stiles. Rolling his eyes, Stiles said, “Sure,” and clinked his glass against theirs.

“Now,” Jason said, after drinking about half of his beer. Stiles was either impressed or terrified. He hadn’t decided yet. “I know we’re not talking about it, but dude, I’m pretty sure if you don’t talk about it with _someone_ , your head’s going to explode.”

Stiles sighed and took a long drink. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said. “It’s a piece of shit story and no one comes out shiny in the end. Not really something I like to dwell on.”

“Sure,” Jason said, shrugging. “The only problem I’m seeing with that is that what you’re not talking about is just going to keep coming up. You work with us now, kid. That means that eventually, because karma just isn’t that nice, something else is going to pull out some other piece of it, and then that’s going to happen again and again. If somebody knows, at least you aren’t trying so hard to keep it a secret. It doesn’t matter if everyone knows, that’s definitely not necessary. It’s just that as long as you’re the only person with the secret, you’re just going to keep on doing this obnoxious internal pain thing.”

Stiles choked on his beer. “Um?” he asked.

“I agree with Jason there. You look like a kicked puppy. If this happens every time something from wherever and whenever pops up, you’re going to wind up spending a fortune on therapy,” Jessica said, shrugging. “I know he’s ridiculous,” she thumbed at Jason, who just smiled, “but he’s not wrong here.”

“I’ve spent more than eleven years not talking about it,” Stiles said, setting his beer down. “I think I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“You’re spent more than eleven years _avoiding_ thinking about it,” Jason said, holding up a finger. “That’s a big difference. If you can’t avoid it anymore, then all you’re going to do is think about it. And then you’re going to look like a damned kicked puppy all the time, and Jennings will shoot you.”

“Also true,” Jessica agreed. “Maybe not shoot to kill, but getting shot anywhere isn’t really fun.”

“No shit,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. 

“So you’ve been shot?” Jason said, sitting back in his chair. “Interesting.”

Stiles considered lying. He considered getting up and walking out. He settled on just thinking the word “fuck” repeatedly.

“Yes,” Stiles said, emptying his beer and holding up his hand until a waitress went to get him another.

“How’d that happen?” Jessica asked. “No offense, Stiles, but you’re an analyst.”

Stiles snorted. “I thought you were looking to get me to talk about all my past crap. Now I am, and you’re mocking analysts? Not cool.”

Jessica snorted. “Fine. Seriously, though. How’d you get shot?”

“Hunter,” Stiles said. “Not the bright orange camo kind. The non-humans-are-all-evil kind.”

“They thought shooting a human was going to help?” Jason asked, making his own gesture for another beer. 

“They weren’t trying to shoot me. They were trying to shoot Derek.” Stiles glanced at the ceiling, then decided that looking at whatever the hell was coating it was actually worse than meeting Jason’s eyes, and looked back at his coworker. “I was just standing too close.”

Jason whistled. “That sounds like some sort of crap,” he said. “All the dealings we’ve had with hunters have been amicable. They hunt the supes who’re hurting and killing people, and we do the same.”

“Not all hunters have the same morals,” Stiles said. “They do have a code, but I’ve dealt with more than my fair share who interpret the code a little more loosely than most.”

“The code,” Jessica said, tapping the table. She paused as both Stiles and Jason’s drinks were brought over. Hers was still at half-mast. “You mean the Argent Code, right? We have that.”

Of course they did. And of course it was “The Argent Code.” It might have been the beer talking, but Stiles was about ready to kick the thing passing for his luck in the face. “Cool,” he said. “I’ve never had a physical copy. I just memorized it.” Having Argents on hand had helped, too.

“I’m not jealous,” Jessica said. “I read it, since I’m the liaison for the local hunters, and it was a pain in the ass.”

“It’s an even bigger pain in the ass when they don’t follow it, but like to spout it at you, anyway,” Stiles said, taking a swallow of his beer. “And then they agree to leave your territory, then come back to shoot your Alpha.”

“That sounds exciting?” Jason said, raising his arms in a “who knows?” gesture. 

“Oh, it was exciting, if by exciting you mean constant panic and learning to sleep with one eye open. If by exciting, you mean that a bunch of high school kids get to spend their nights dealing with sociopathic werewolves and evil trees.” Stiles snorted. “God, you can’t even make this shit up.”

“So tell us a story,” Jessica said, swallowing another mouthful of beer.

Stiles paused, looking down at his beer. “What kind of story?”

“How about two?” Jason put in. “One of the ones you couldn’t even make up, and one where absolutely nothing important happens.”

“You’re good,” Stiles said, grinning at Jason. “Ever done hostage negotiations?”

“Actually,” Jason said, “I have. I was a Detective before the CIA.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be right,” Stiles muttered as Jessica laughed.

“Have you?” Jason asked, taking another drink of his beer.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to make me talk about this, I’m doing it my way.”

“Is your way by request?” Jessica asked. “Because you put about a book’s worth of new creatures in our directory that I’ve never even heard of.”

“Count yourself lucky,” Stiles said. “That means the non-humans are taking care of their own messes, just like they’re supposed to.”

“And you got to be part of the cleaning up messes part,” Jason said.

“Lucky me.” Stiles took another drink. “Fine. Make a request.”

“Shit, I didn’t think you’d agree,” Jessica said.

“Nice, Jess,” Jason said, smiling. “I’ve got one. I know what druids are in the context of movies with a lot of special effects, but we’ve never encountered one. Your notes said they’re para-human. First, I have no idea what that means, and second, I really want to.”

“Sure,” Stiles said. “I have about a billion of those stories. One of the pack’s allies was -- is, I guess -- a druid. Para-human means, I don’t know, human-adjacent. Genetically, they’re human. A long time ago, a group of humans make a pact with the land. The trees heard them and gave them some magic. Most druids just work with herbs and minor spells. Others are more powerful. The one I knew was a vet.”

“A vet?” Jessica asked, grinning. “Like, what, he dealt with werewolves and decided he wanted to know how to fix them?”

Stiles shrugged. “Actually, yeah. The Hale family have held the Beacon Hills territory for a ridiculously long time, and have always had a good relationship with the druids.”

“Huh,” Jason said. “Have you met other druids?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Not all of them use their powers for good. Some of them use their powers to brainwash teenage werewolves. The majority that I’ve met, though, have been the magical version of zen masters, and are a pretty positive force.”

“Are there any other para-humans?” Jessica asked.

Jason flicked a hand at her. “The only ones in the database are the druids. Stiles updated the database. Hence: he doesn’t know that any more than we do.”

Jessica scowled and Stiles let himself grin a little.

“Who says I put everything I knew into that database?” Stiles asked, taking another drink. “Who says I didn’t just put in the things that can be dangerous, and that the department would need to know about?”

“If that’s true,” Jason said, “that’s a really fine line you’re walking with James.” He put up his hands. “I’m not going to tell him. If I’ve learned anything today, it’s that you know one hell of a lot more about any of this than we do. I’m just saying that James might not see it the same way.”

Jessica nodded. “I’m pretty positive he wouldn’t, to be honest. James likes to know everything there is to know. It’s part of what makes him a great agent.”

“It’s also part of what makes him so dangerous,” Jason added.

“Good to know,” Stiles said.

“Are you going to answer my question, then?” Jessica asked. “Are there other para-humans?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, nodding. “Quite a few. I’ve never heard of any of them being dangerous, though. None of them have anywhere near as much magic as druids, or mutations more impressive than one enhanced sense.”

“What kinds are there?” Jessica asked. 

“A lot?” Stiles guessed. He shrugged at Jessica’s scowl. “I don’t know. I’ve only met a few, and heard of a few others. Derek told me there were a lot of others, but we never had any reason to worry about it past that. The only para-humans we met were there to help us, or to hide from something bigger and badder.”

“Okay, two. Tell me two.” Jessica made an exaggerated pleading face at Stiles, and he barked out a laugh. 

“You are really ruining your Impenetrable Badass image,” Stiles said.

Jason snorted. “Yeah, okay. Jess is definitely a badass in a fight, but outside of work she’s just like the rest of us.” He paused. “No, that’s not true. She’s that girl who watches kitten videos for hours and cries.”

Stiles choked on his beer as Jessica protested with a loud, “Hey!”

“Tell me one thing I said that isn’t true,” Jason said, grinning at her.

“Not the point,” Jessica said.

“Completely the point,” Jason said. “Stiles has to learn sooner or later. Imagine him learning at some inopportune moment, like on a mission when you wander into his hotel room to show him this _absolutely precious_ cat video.” Jason had mimicked Jessica’s inflection almost perfectly on “absolutely precious.”

Against his better judgment, Stiles was starting to like Jessica and Jason. He was definitely beginning to see how “Jess” fit better than “Jessica.”

“You say that like it actually happened,” Stiles said, grinning at Jess -- and yeah, that fit better.

“It was the most awkward thing that had happened in my life to date,” Jason said. “I mean, working in this Division has completely changed my understanding of awkward, but I was new.”

“I was trying to gain rapport,” Jess said. “You just seemed so edgy.”

“Well, you definitely gained something,” Jason replied.

Jess rolled her eyes. “Sure, fine.” She turned her attention back to Stiles. “Just two?”

“You really don’t forget things, do you?” Stiles asked.

“Nope,” Jess said, smiling.

“Fine. There are para-humans called environs who exude calm.” Stilles took another drink. “They walk into a room and the tension leaves. Non-humans use them for negotiations a lot.” He paused. “Well, mediations. When you’re the third party trying to get two people who hate each other to sit down and talk, environs are the way to go.”

“Okay, that’s awesome,” Jess said. “Why didn’t you put that in the registry? We could totally use those.”

“Because they generally don’t work for other humans,” Stiles said. “Humans tend to ignore the fact that environs, too, are human, and treat them like part of the scenery. They hate it, so they keep to themselves and work with prominent non-humans. Or, if not prominent, good ones.”

“Okay,” Jason said. “I’m all right with not using them. I’m pretty sure they’d make me completely useless.”

“And you’re not now?” Jess asked in deadpan. She grinned, then continued, “Okay, number two.”

Stiles considered. “Sparks,” he said. “Sparks are like druid lite. They can do a little magic, though usually not anything complicated. They also have supernaturally good intuition. If a spark tells you something doesn’t feel right, you listen. If you don’t, you only have yourself to blame.”

“Learn that the hard way?” Jason asked, finishing off his beer and signalling for a third.

“No,” Stiles said. “A group of sparks came to hide out with the pack once. Someone very dangerous learned it the hard way, and wanted revenge.” He shrugged. “They offered the pack an alliance in return for protection. Not too different than we did today. The pack agreed.” Stiles grinned. “Of course, the sparks knew they would, or they wouldn’t have asked. Intuition works like that.”

“Huh,” Jess said, leaning back in her seat.

The waitress dropped off Jason’s beer and asked Stiles and Jess if they’d like refills. Stiles was fully embracing the alcohol to get him through the evening, but Jess asked for soda water instead.

“So,” Jason said, after the waitress had returned with Stiles’ next drink, and departed again.

“So?” Stiles asked. He really wasn’t liking Jason’s tone of voice. 

“What happened?” Jess asked.

Stiles leaned back in his chair. “I was really hoping we’d moved past that,” he said. 

“Nope,” Jess said, smiling good naturedly. “It’ll still help.”

Feeling heavier than he had only a few minutes before, Stiles considered. On the one hand, he couldn’t even think of a way to say “no” that was strong enough.

On the other hand, a very, very tired hand, a hand that hadn't slept properly in years, he couldn't think of a single reason why not. He was already thinking about it. He wasn't going to _stop_ thinking about it. Maybe saying it out loud to two relative strangers would help. 

At least, he could hope it would.

"Why the fuck not?" he asked. 

Jason and Jess exchanged a look. "It won't go further than this table. We promise," Jess said.

Stiles let out a breath. "Yeah. All right."

“Just get it over with,” Jason said. “Rip off the Band-Aid.” 

“My dad was murdered,” Stiles answered. That was about as ripping-off-the-Band-Aid as it could get. 

And it hurt about as much as he’d thought it would. That was, Stiles almost couldn’t breathe with the weight of it.

“My dad was murdered,” Stiles said again, “and I warned you that this was a shit story.”


	7. In Which Stiles Begins to Tell His Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING** : Here is the offscreen major character death. While it's not narrated, it is described, so if this will be upsetting to you, feel free to skip to the end notes, where I will summarize this chapter.
> 
> Also: I am so, _so_ very sorry for the wait. Real life reared up and kicked me in the face. It should calm down soon. (I got sick, and then there was ten miles of work to finish because of it.) This chapter is slightly shorter than the others, as most of it happened in bits and bobs, and I didn't want to wait any longer to post something. It's also a good dropping-off point in the flashback. Which will be a monster. The barebones outline is a thousand words. Oops.
> 
> NB: If you ever want to write what basically amounts to tragic exposition, the soundtrack to "The Last of Us" is pretty much guaranteed to pull you down into that headspace. I had to take a crying break to finish writing this (because it was awful, and because I know the rest of it).

**2016**

It happened two weeks after the ousted Berkeley pack had arrived and tried to take over the Hale pack territory. Margaret, their Alpha, had given up her pursuit and come up with a solution with Derek, after the death of three of her betas in the last fight.

In a fit of altruism, Derek had looked into areas that had been vacated and were open for a pack to claim. He had found one in Alberta, Canada, and offered to help what remained of Margaret’s pack settle there, inclusive of a year of back-up if they needed it. Derek had told Stiles that he understood being forced out of your home, and he had some sympathy for the pack. Stiles could understand that, and backed Derek’s play with some of their own pack members, who wanted nothing more than to just throw Margaret’s pack out of the territory after how they’d taken a chunk out of Erica’s side.

She was healing, but it had been a close thing.

The day after Derek and Margaret sealed their deal, while Stiles was researching Margaret’s pack’s new territory, he got a phone call from Deputy Erin Chambers. He only remembered it in fragments.

She was so very sorry. 

It had happened so suddenly. 

No one had seen it. 

The Sheriff’s office door had been locked.

It had taken them a few precious minutes to break it down. 

It had been too late. 

The Sheriff was already dead. 

His throat and stomach had been clawed open. 

His window was broken. 

They believed it had been a wild animal attack. 

Could Stiles please go to the hospital? 

As next of kin, he needed to personally identify the body.

She was so very, very sorry.

Stiles had driven to the hospital in a kind of daze. This had to be some kind of joke, right? He would arrive at the hospital and his father would be alive, having had some strange fit of whimsy, and Melissa would shrug and apologize for having gone along with it.

None of that happened.

Instead, Melissa met him at the entrance of the hospital and hugged him. Stiles couldn’t hug her back. All he could do was head toward the morgue, his feet leading him there on autopilot. What it meant that Stiles could find the morgue without thinking made Stiles laugh hysterically, later.

Melissa followed him the whole way there, and Scott jogged to meet them just before Stiles opened the door.

“Stiles,” Scott said, putting out a hand. If he said anything else, Stiles didn’t hear him.

He stepped into the cold, sterile room, and there was his father. The Sheriff was laying on a cold, metal bed -- gurney? table? -- with a sheet pulled up to his throat. The hospital had sewn the tears in his throat back together, but Stiles could see all the stitching, could see how very thoroughly his father’s throat had been torn apart. 

“Mr. Stilinski--”

“That’s him,” Stiles said, keeping his voice even.

The coroner coughed. “Can I have you sign?” he asked softly, holding out a metal clipboard.

Stiles took the clipboard, saw the words “death” and “authentication” and scrawled his signature and the date at the bottom. “Can I go now?” he asked, handing the clipboard back.

The coroner looked over his shoulder, and Stiles guessed that he was looking at Melissa. Whatever he saw made him sigh, but he said, “Of course, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles turned around and walked out of the room, heading back toward the entrance to the hospital. Before he could make it out of the “Restricted - Authorized Personnel Only” hallway and its relative privacy, Scott grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. 

“Stiles,” he said, putting his hands on the sides of Stiles’ arms. “What do you need?”

“To go home,” Stiles said, letting his eyes fixate on a point over Scott’s shoulder where a light bulb was flickering a warning of its own impending death.

“Okay,” Scott said. “Let’s go home.”

“By myself,” Stiles added, stepping slowly backward, out of Scott’s grip.

Scott made a face, somewhere between grief and grimace. “I don’t think--”

“I’m going home,” Stiles repeated. “I’ll call you later.”

Scott stared at Stiles for a while, different emotions clouding and leaving his face one by one. Stiles didn’t try to interpret them. Eventually, Scott said, “Okay.” He paused. “But if you don’t call by tomorrow, I’m coming over.”

“Fine,” Stiles replied. He turned around and headed out of the hospital. 

This time, no one tried to stop him.

 

Stiles found out later, in bits and pieces, what happened while he was shut away in his house, cell phone off, watching DVR’d baseball on the couch.

The moment John Stilinski’s body had arrived at the hospital, Melissa had called Scott. Scott had been out in the preserve, helping Boyd and Isaac make sure there had been no more intrusions into the territory. Scott had yelled to Isaac, who was closest, that the Sheriff had been killed, and he was going to the hospital, before running the two miles to where he’d parked his bike. 

Isaac had immediately called Derek, then found Boyd, and both had run back to the newly reconstructed Hale House. By the time they arrived, most of the pack was already there, as was Margaret. They were in the yard, and the pack had formed a loose circle around Margaret, who seemed both resigned and calm. 

Margaret had arrived before Scott had even received the phone call from his mother, and she had brought the body of one of her betas -- Brett Manners -- with her. He was laying in a crumpled heap near her feet. The first thing she had said, when Derek walked out of the house and seen her, was, “I’m so very, very sorry.”

Brett, the beta who had torn a piece out of Erica’s side during a particularly fierce fight between the packs, had not taken well to the news of Margaret making a deal with Derek. He wanted the power that killing Derek and absorbing his pack would have given them. More than anything, he wanted to be Alpha. Before Margaret had killed him, Brett had told her that he’d killed the Sheriff so that Derek would kill her in revenge, or at least weaken her, and Brett would be able to step in.

He had been completely delusional, and Margaret had broken his neck in a matter of seconds.

His body was a peace offering, as was Margaret herself. She had told Derek that she had killed Brett not only because he was vicious and had broken the rules, but also because she didn’t want to stain the truce that the two packs had made by creating any more fanatics in her pack, aggrieved between the Hale pack had killed one of theirs in cold blood. 

She offered herself as a second peace offering, saying that she would give up her position as Alpha and allow her second to kill her, in a hope to maintain the offer that the Hale pack had made her.

Derek had told her that wasn’t necessary. The actions of one rogue beta did not taint her entire pack. Growling had come in response to that, from nearly every member of the Hale pack, but Derek had quieted them with a hand. He had continued that, though the offer still stood, its conditions had changed. Margaret and her pack needed to be off his territory in three hours, under the supervision of Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson. They would be escorted several miles from the territory boundaries. Margaret’s pack would be forced to set claim to the Alberta territory on its own, and the Hale pack would only intervene if a severe physical threat was incurred, and only after a three-month period of mourning.

Margaret had agreed to these terms immediately, only asking what Derek wanted her to do with Brett’s body. Derek told her to take it back to her camp and burn it. With Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson tailing her, Margaret had set off to do exactly as requested.

Scott had arrived only minutes after Margaret had left, and he had been growling and vicious, wanting to know what had happened. Derek had told him and Scott had stopped growling, but continued to simmer. 

Various members of the pack, both new and old, had asked how Stiles was, and Scott had told them. Derek had waved them down from their immediate desire to go to Stiles, to never leave grieving pack alone. He told them to respect Stiles’ space, and to wait until they were invited.

After the pack had dispersed, likely to form up again to worry about Stiles, Derek had sent Stiles a single text.

 **Derek Hale (18:27, 23 October 2016)**  
Please let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.

He didn’t receive a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: 
> 
> Stiles finds out his dad's dead, Scott and Melissa try to comfort him, but he shrugs them off. His father was killed by the beta of a pack that came in to try to claim the territory, but lost. After that pack and Derek come to an agreement to help them settle somewhere uninhabited, said beta kills the Sheriff in the hopes that it will make Derek renege on the agreement and kill or seriously injure the alpha of the other pack. This doesn't work, as Derek in 2016 is not the Derek of the beginning of the show (seasons one and two are all Stiles' and Scott's sophomore year; this is senior year, and people change people).
> 
> The alpha kills her beta as a sign of peace, and Derek accepts it, but tells them to get the hell out of Dodge in the next hour. They do.
> 
> (There's obviously more nuance than that, but that'll get you to the next chapter without being completely lost.)
> 
> Obnoxious note: I decided Stiles went to Berkeley for undergrad, not CalTech. I'M ALLOWED TO CHANGE MY MIND. There's a more detailed timeline that'll go up at the end of the last flashback chapter (since that's about when the timeline will start only going forward, and it should help make everything make sense). Though there's a bit of timeline you won't get, because that's the rest of the story. BAHAHA. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Also, the next 10K words of this are written, and they're all flashback, and the flashback is maybe like 52% done and I'M SO SORRY. It's all this depressing. It gets more depressing. Then it sort of plateaus. Then it gets a little better. Then it gets more depressing. Then it gets to the place where the very beginning of chapter one happens. If it makes you feel better, I keep having to take hourly breaks to look at cute puppy pictures, or hug my own.
> 
> Um, because this is apparently a thing, feel free to check out my [Tumblr](http://approximatelytrue.tumblr.com/). I think I'm going to start posting the story there too? And I'm pretty much always up for 300-1K drabbles in my ask box.


	8. In Which Stiles Processes and Scott and Derek Are Excellent People (well, Werewolves)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is angsty, but it also has the romance piece I'm sure some of you were waiting for. Of course, very few people want the flashback romance instead of the real-time romance, but ... take what you can get?
> 
> Warnings for: Age Appropriate Angst, dealing with Major Character Death, and Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
> 
> Also: THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO HAS COMMENTED AND KUDO'D. You seriously make my day -- especially comments. I love all the thoughtful comments that everyone has been posting. Post more! I am really bad at the whole "my plot is a secret" thing when people as questions. Oops!
> 
>  **Addendum** : It was pointed out to me that this chapter and the last chapter's text messages have waffled between October and September. I was originally typing September until I realized that was the old timeline, not the current/actual timeline, and fixed it. Apparently not well. So. They should all be October. I think I've gotten them now, but who knows.

Stiles knew that Scott had said “tomorrow,” but he also knew that his friend would worry about what time “tomorrow” meant. Stiles figured he had until six o’clock to either call Scott, or find another hiding place where werewolf senses couldn’t track him.

As the latter was a pipe dream -- Derek could probably track him to Bora Bora at this point -- Stiles sat down to get it over with. He turned on his phone, ignored his 87 text messages notifications, and dialed.

Scott picked up after the first ring. “Stiles?” he asked, his voice tinny over the phone connection. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Hey.”

“Are you all right?” Scott paused. “God, no, of course you’re not, I’m sorry, I’m a fucking idiot. How are you?”

“Numb,” Stiles replied. “I know it happened, but I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything.”

Scott took a moment to respond. “That’s okay, buddy. You’re in shock. Mom said she thought you might be.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He knew he was in shock. That had processed hours ago. He just didn’t know how to fix it. Or if he wanted to.

“What can I do?” Scott asked. “Food? Can I call someone for you? Do you want me to come over?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said. “I don’t know what I want. I’ve spent the last eighteen hours watching old baseball games. I guess food?” Stiles slumped further into the couch. He didn’t want food. He didn’t want Scott. 

He just wanted his dad.

“Okay, bud,” Scott said. “Pizza?”

“Sounds good,” Stiles said. 

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Scott said. “Can I grab anything else?”

Stiles looked around his living room, like it had the answer to that question. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Dad’s advanced directive, from the department.”

There was silence on the line, then Scott’s voice was back, softer than before, like he was trying not to cry. “Sure thing.”

“Okay,” Stiles said.

“See you in twenty,” Scott said.

“Yeah,” Stiles replied. “See you.”

Once he disconnected, Stiles stared at his phone for a few minutes, his mind utterly blank. 

He started clicking through his messages. They were all condolences, from the Sheriff’s Department, the Fire Department, classmates he barely knew, and his pack. Apparently, his father’s death had made the nightly news, not just in Beacon Hills, but all of Northern California. 

Stiles didn’t reply to any of the messages, until he found Derek’s. He stared at it for a while, his brain coming up with everything and nothing. Finally, he sent a reply.

 **Outgoing (12:17, 24 October 2016)**  
Scott’s coming over. He’s bringing food. I don’t need anything.

Derek’s reply was almost instantaneous.

 **Derek Hale (12:17, 24 October 2016)**  
Okay. Let me know if that changes. I love you.

 **Outgoing (12:18, 24 October 2016)**  
I know.

Stiles turned the ringer on his phone back on, shoved it into his pocket, and headed into the kitchen to pull down plates and napkins. Scott arrived exactly nineteen minutes after they had hung up.

The knock on the door was strange, but Stiles appreciated it. He let Scott into the house, then led him into the kitchen. Scott dropped his messenger bag next to his seat at the table, then opened the pizza box into the middle. Meat lovers. Stiles’ favorite. 

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Scott said, “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles snorted, surprising himself. “Why? Unless you killed him, I’m not sure what you’re sorry for.”

“You know what I mean,” Scott said, putting down his second slice of pizza. “I’m sorry that he’s gone. I’m sorry I can’t fix it. I’m just sorry.”

“Well, stop,” Stiles said, some anger leaking into his voice. It was the most he’d felt since he’d gotten the call. “He’s gone, you can’t fix it, nobody can fucking fix it, so stop apologizing.”

“Okay,” Scott said, picking his slice back up and taking a bite. 

Apparently anger was his gateway emotion. He felt it settling in his stomach like a stone, sending shockwaves up and into his throat, his lungs, his voice. “He’s gone, that’s all. He was here, and now he’s not, and for what? What even fucking happened? Why was it him? What the hell has he ever done?” Stiles slammed his fist down onto the table. “What the _fuck_ happened?”

“One of Margaret’s betas,” Scott said, keeping his voice level. “Brett. He wanted Derek to kill Margaret so he could take over her pack. He wanted to take over ours.” Scott swallowed. “Margaret killed him. We escorted her pack off our territory, and we’re leaving them on their own for three months.” He shrugged. “No one’s happy about it. To be honest, pretty much everyone is homicidal about it. But Derek wouldn’t let us kill them because one beta was a power-hungry psychopath.”

Stiles finished his slice of pizza before he responded. “Good,” he said, feeling the rage start to melt away. “Derek did the right thing. I’m glad.” In place of the rage something else was building, and Stiles didn’t want to put a name to it. “It was just arbitrary, then. Just because he was human, and he was related to the pack. An easy target. Not a member of the pack, so no blood feud. Just an innocent fucking bystander.”

Scott nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Yeah.”

Stiles found himself throwing his glass at the wall to the left of Scott before he even realized what he was doing. “Oh god,” he said, what he’d done processing. “Oh god, Scott, I’m sorry.” Stiles stood up so fast he knocked his chair over, heading toward where the shards of the glass were spread across the floor. 

Scott intercepted him. “Stiles, buddy, it’s okay. Let me get it. I heal, remember?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, taking a step back, something catching in his throat. “You heal.” 

Stepping forward, Scott had him wrapped in a hug before Stiles could even think of backing away. “I know,” Scott said. “It’s not fair. Life isn’t fair.” He wrapped his arms more securely around Stiles. “Life’s a piece of shit sometimes. But I’m here,” he continued. “The pack’s here. Hell, half the city is here for you. Your dad was an amazing man.”

Stiles let his arms drift around Scott’s torso and buried his face in Scott’s shoulder. The first tears he’d shed since the call came in great gulps and gasps, like they were trying to break free from the cage Stiles had shoved them into. “God, Scott,” Stiles said, his voice muffled both by Scott’s shirt and his own heavy breathing. “Scott, I’m an orphan. There’s no one. Mom and dad were both only children, my grandparents are dead, I don’t have anyone left.”

“You have us,” Scott said, tightening his arms around Stiles enough to be painful before easing back again. “You have the pack. We love you. We aren’t going anywhere.”

“What am I going to do?” Stiles asked, pulling back and bumping into the table. “My family is gone.”

“I don’t know,” Scott said, looking Stiles in the eye. “But we’ll figure it out. Your mom and dad might be gone, but you’ll always have me. You’ll always have the family we built.”

 

Scott left around seven o’clock, after finally handing Stiles the Sheriff’s advanced directive. He made Stiles promise to call him if he needed anything, even just company. Stiles agreed, but only half-heartedly. The rest of his heart seemed to have bled out with his tears. Stiles curled up again on the couch, but couldn’t bring himself to turn on the television, or grab his book from the end table. He wanted to cry, but his tears had run themselves dry.

He had opened the advanced directive and laid it on the coffee table in front of him, but couldn’t bring himself to look at it. He knew he needed to. The funeral should be Saturday. That gave him nearly a week to plan, but a week wasn’t enough time to pull himself together. At least, he didn’t think it was.

Stiles stared it, unable to get past the first few sentences over and over, before he pulled out his phone.

 **Outgoing (19:37, 24 October 2016)**  
Can you come over?

 **Derek Hale (19:38, 24 October 2016)**  
Give me ten minutes.

Dropping his phone back down beside his book, Stiles returned to staring at the advanced directive, trying to get past those first couple sentences. 

Unlike Scott, Derek didn’t knock when he arrived. Stiles heard him let himself in, then walk into the kitchen before stepping into the living room a few moments later. Derek looked tired, and Stiles felt a muted version of the concern he always felt at that sort of exhaustion.

Derek didn’t wait for Stiles to say anything before sitting himself down on the couch next to Stiles, not touching, but close enough that Stiles could feel him there. He turned to Stiles, but didn’t speak, content, as he usually was, to wait for what Stiles had to say.

Instead of saying anything, Stiles gestured to the advanced directive on the table in front of him. Derek picked it up and took the time to read it thoroughly, turning through the pages slowly. When he finished, he set it back down, and turned again to Stiles. 

This time, Stiles said, “I can’t read it. I’ve tried, but I can’t.” He leaned further back into the couch, pulling his legs up underneath him.

“All right,” Derek said. “Do you want me to tell you what it says?”

Stiles turned that over for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “But I need to start doing it. Getting it ready.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t even think about it, let alone read the damn thing.”

Stiles felt Derek’s hand card softly through his hair and let himself lean until he was propped up against Derek’s shoulder. Derek slipped an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulled him snug against his side.

“Okay,” Derek said. “Do you want me to do it?”

“Yes,” Stiles said quietly. It felt like a failure.

“Okay,” Derek said again, kissing Stiles on the temple. “I can do that.” He paused a moment. “Don’t beat yourself up. Someone once told me it’s all right to ask for help.” Stiles felt a small smile tug at his lips.

“Did he teach you to offer it, too?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Derek said. “I figured that one out on my own.” He kissed Stiles’ temple again. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I’m pretty sure you have something else you should be doing right now,” Stiles said.

“You’re deflecting,” Derek said, tightening his arm momentarily, “and Boyd can take care of it. Making sure Margaret’s pack gets where it’s going isn’t something he needs me for. Do you want me to stay?”

Stiles let out a breath. “Yes,” he said. It only felt slightly less like a failure.

“All right,” Derek said. He gestured to the TV. “Do you want to watch a movie? Do something that isn’t this for a while?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Stiles replied, shrugging.

“Die Hard?” Derek asked, standing to walk to the Stilinski DVD rack. Now just Stiles’ DVD rack.

“Sure,” Stiles said.

Derek took the few minutes to get the DVD set up, then brought the remote over to the couch and set it down on the coffee table without starting the movie. He stood over Stiles for a few moments, looking down.

“What?” Stiles asked. 

Before he had time to register what was happening, Stiles was up off the couch and in Derek’s arms. 

 

“Hey!” he yelled. “Manhandling! We’ve talked about this!”

“Mhm,” Derek replied as he turned them around and dropped into what had been Stiles’ seat on the couch. He took a few moments to arrange them, and Stiles found himself propped back against Derek’s chest, sat between Derek’s legs, with Derek’s arm around his waist. As Derek reached out for the remote, he said, “We’ve talked about it. You like it.”

Stiles sputtered for a few moments before he said, “In bed. I like it _in bed_.”

Stiles felt Derek shrug behind him. “Your heart rate said you liked it the rest of the time, too.”

“Jesus,” Stiles said, leaning fully into Derek’s chest as Derek hit play on the DVD’s menu screen. As the movie opened, Stiles continued, “You could occasionally listen to what I’m saying out loud, instead of what I’m saying to your cheating werewolf senses.”

Derek dropped the remote on the side table, next to Stiles’ book and phone. “I could,” he agreed. He wrapped his other arm around Stiles’ waist, as well, and tugged him further into the embrace.

Stiles relaxed into it, but said, “But you won’t.”

“Nope,” Derek said.

“Of course not.”

 

Stiles woke up to the end credits scrolling across the screen and Derek running a hand lightly up and down his arm. 

“What time is it?” he asked, pushing himself out of the slump he’d been in, but not out of Derek’s arms. 

“Ten-fifteen,” Derek answered, continuing to stroke Stiles’ arm. “Apparently you needed to sleep.”

Stiles hadn’t told Derek he had been awake since the morning of his dad’s death. Derek probably knew anyway.

“Apparently,” Stiles replied. “I think I still do,” he continued, covering a yawn. 

“Okay,” Derek said, pulling his arms back enough to put his hands on Stiles hips and push him into an upright position. He stood up within seconds of pushing Stiles to his feet. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Stiles stepped out from Derek’s space and from behind the coffee table. “That sounds good.”

Derek followed Stiles up the stairs to Stiles’ bedroom, silent but there. Once they were in the bedroom and the door was closed -- though Stiles didn’t know why, it wasn’t like anyone was going to be around to care -- Derek traded his jeans and shirt for a well-worn T-shirt he kept in the bottom drawer of Stiles’ dresser. Stiles pulled on his own pajamas and laid down in his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Derek laid down next to him, then reached out to pull Stiles up against his chest. “Sleep,” he said.

Stiles resigned himself to being the little spoon and laced his fingers through the hand Derek had thrown over Stiles’ side and rested on his stomach. Stiles would have told Derek “fine,” but he was asleep before he could make the word.


	9. In Which Stiles Deals With the Reality of Someone Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Someone pointed out that the text message dates differ between chapter seven and eight (and even within chapter eight). That has been fixed. This takes place in October, not September. Sorry!
> 
> Also this chapter might not be as bad as the last one? As, like, a stop-gap between that and chapter nine, which actively made my cry while writing? I'll put that up Wednesday.

Stiles woke to Derek tracing a hand back and forth over the exposed skin between Stiles shirt and his sleep pants. He laid there for a while, letting the feeling comfort him, before he rolled over, meeting Derek’s eyes. “Hey,” he said.

The hand Derek had been using to stroke Stiles’ stomach curved its way to his hip. “Good morning,” Derek said softly. He leaned in and kissed Stiles’ forehead.

“He’s still dead?” Stiles asked, working his hand into the fabric of Derek’s T-shirt. 

“Yeah,” Derek said, using his fingers to trace patterns on Stiles’ hip

Stiles closed his eyes. “Okay.”

“What can I do?” Derek asked, his voice still soft.

“Just,” Stiles said, pausing. “Just stay here for a little while.”

“Okay,” Derek said, letting the patterns he was tracing drift up and down Stiles’ side. 

It was relaxing, calming, having Derek there. Stiles knew that he couldn’t keep himself hidden away, but he also knew that the moment he gave the pack permission to come over, they wouldn’t be capable of not swarming, not keeping their hands to themselves.

Scott and Derek were one thing. Scott was his brother, Derek was his boyfriend. He needed them, and he knew it. Maybe eventually, he would need the rest of the pack. Probably, even. But it wasn’t today. 

Stiles pressed a soft kiss to Derek’s mouth, then pulled himself close enough to tuck his head under Derek’s chin. Derek kept tracing designs over his skin, and Stiles found himself asleep again in a few moments. 

 

When Stiles woke again, Derek was still there, but he was scrolling through something on his phone. At some point, Derek had rolled onto his back, and Stiles was laying half on top of him, a leg thrown over one of Derek’s and his arm around Derek’s waist. 

Derek clicked the screen off on his phone, then dropped in on the bed to run a hand through Stiles’ hair.

“What time is it?” Stiles asked, not even making the pretense of moving. 

“A little after noon,” Derek said. “You needed the sleep.”

Stiles let out a puff of air. “I know,” he said. “But you don’t, and you have shit to do.”

Derek shrugged. “Boyd’s capable. I’m not concerned.”

“I don’t need to be babysat,” Stiles said, lifting his head to meet Derek’s eyes. 

Derek gave him a long look. “No,” he said finally, “you don’t. But you don’t need to be left alone, either.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’ve been alone many times. I haven’t blown myself up yet.”

“No,” Derek said. “But that’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” Stiles said, pushing himself into a sitting position, looking down at Derek. “But I kind of want to be alone.”

Derek looked him in the eye for a few moments, then said, “Okay. As long as you tell me when you don’t anymore.”

Stiles nodded. “You or Scott. I promise.”

“Okay,” Derek said, sitting up next to him. “I’ll keep my phone on.”

“Yeah, all right,” Stiles said, sliding out of bed. “I need a shower. I’m two days of funk.”

Derek nodded. 

Stiles grabbed a set of clean clothes and left the room. Derek had gone by the time Stiles was out of the shower. 

Stiles went downstairs to the living room, dropped back onto the couch, and resumed the DVR’d baseball game he’d paused before he’d called Scott the day before.

 

Somewhere around dinner time, Stiles checked his phone again, and saw that there were more condolences from people he didn’t know, and even more messages from the pack, growing increasingly worried. 

Stiles shot off a message to Scott, asking him to tell the pack that he needed space, and he’d get in touch when he was ready, then turned off his phone. 

For a few hours after that, Stiles wandered aimlessly through his house, from one room to the next, just looking at all the things he owned. Things that had once been his dad’s, or his mom’s, but were now his alone. 

He’d have to decide what to do with everything. The thought hit Stiles like a hit to the gut, and he sat down where he was, in the middle of what had once been his dad’s study.

Like when his mom had died, and Stiles and his dad had gone through her things, deciding what to keep and what to donate, Stiles would have to do that all over again. Only, this time, he would have to do it alone.

Stiles grabbed five different colors of post-its from his room and began sticking them to things. Things that would need to be thrown out, things that could be donated, things that other people would want, things that would be put into storage for some day in the future, and things that Stiles wanted to keep.

It was past three in the morning when Stiles finally found himself in the living room, having marked everything in the house, including the boxes in the attic. He stared down at his post-it notes, then looked around the room, as neatly categorized as everything else in the house.

He walked back to his room, dug around until he found a sixth color of post-it, and walked back downstairs. He stuck the post-it to the wall of the living room, above the couch and in between two of his mom’s paintings. He pulled the Sharpie he’d been using all day out of his pocket and wrote one word on the post-it:

Sell.

 

The next morning, having not slept since Derek had left, Stiles’ home phone began ringing. No one called the landline anymore; everyone contacted Stiles by cell phone. He picked it up tentatively, hoping against hope that it wasn’t a telemarketer who would immediately ask for his dad.

It wasn’t.

“Mr. Stilinski?” the voice on the other end asked, gravelly and worn.

“Yeah, this is Stiles,” Stiles said, making sure the voice knew he was the kid, not the dead man.

“I’m Harrison Underdahl, from Hanson, Underdahl, and Matthews. We represented your father,” the man -- Harrison -- said. 

Stiles recognized the name. There were only a few law firms in town, and Hanson was the one with the best reputation. For starters, they didn’t employ Jackson’s dad, and never had. “What can I help you with?” Stiles asked.

“Would you be able to come into our office later today? Perhaps one o’clock?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be. Except for all the places he should be, taking care of the funeral, but Derek was instead. “What do you need?”

Harrison cleared his throat. “We need to read you your father’s Will.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “Okay. One o’clock?”

“One o’clock,” Harrison confirmed.

“I’ll see you then,” Stiles said.

“Thank you, Mr. Stilinski.” He paused. “My deepest condolences for your loss. Your father was a great man.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Yeah, he was.”

“Well,” Harrison said. “Until this afternoon. Good day.” 

After Stiles had put the phone back in its cradle, he started a pot of coffee. He was starting to feel caffeine withdrawal, and Stiles was pretty sure he didn’t need to add anything else to this already shit day.

 

When Stiles arrived at the Law Offices of Hanson, Underdahl, and Matthews, a perky desk assistant told him to have a seat, and Mr. Underdahl would see him shortly.

Sitting in the waiting area, Stiles pulled his phone out, clicking through most of the new messages without replying. He did reply to Scott asking if he needed anything -- no -- and to Derek asking what he was doing -- sitting in his dad’s attorney’s office. Scott didn’t reply, but Derek did, a few minutes later.

 **Derek Hale (13:02, 26 October 2016)**  
Are they reading the Will?

 **Outgoing (13:03, 26 October 2016**  
Yeah.

 **Derek Hale (13:03, 26 October 2016)**  
Would you like me to be there?

 **Outgoing (13:03, 26 October 2016)**  
No. I need to do this myself.

 **Derek Hale (13:04, 26 October 2016)**  
Dinner at 6?

 **Outgoing (13:06, 26 October 2016)**  
Okay. The Chinese place?

 **Derek Hale (13:07, 26 October 2016)**  
Would you like me to invite anyone else?

Stiles stared at the text for a few minutes. 

**Outgoing (13:14, 26 October 2016)**  
Scott, Allison, and Lydia? Erica, Isaac, and Boyd? Maybe Jackson?

 **Derek Hale (13:15, 26 October 2016)**  
Okay.

“Mr. Stilinski?” Stiles looked up at who he could only assume was Harrison Underdahl. The voice was the same. Harrison looked to be about eighty, but still had an air of professionalism and dignity. Stiles respected that.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, standing up. He sent off one last text.

 **Outgoing (13:17, 26 October 2016)**  
Going into the meeting. I’ll see you then.

He glimpsed Derek’s reply briefly before he stepped into Harrison’s office.

 **Derek Hale (13:17, 26 October 2016)**  
See you then.

Harrison gestured him into a seat in front of the desk, and Stiles sat down. He waited for Harrison to sit down, then pull out a manila folder. 

“I will begin reading the Will now, if that’s all right,” Harrison said, looking at Stiles.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, swallowing. “Cool.”

“I, the undersigned, Noah Michael Stilinski, as part of my employment with the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department, do hereby, after mature deliberation, declare the following to be my last Will and Testament with respect to such property as may be left by me at the time of my death,” Harrison read.

Stiles did his best to sit up in his chair, to listen aptly, and not to break down in the middle of the office of a man he didn’t know.

“To my son, Mieczyslaw Patrick Stilinski, I leave the deed to my house, the contents of my bank accounts and other monetary holdings, and all of my earthly possessions, to do wish as he pleases, with the understanding that the account purposely set aside for his education is, in fact, used for such.

“As Executor of my testamentary dispositions, I hereby appoint Mr. Harrison Underdahl, Attorney at Law for the firm of Hanson, Underdahl, and Matthews, resident of Beacon Hills, California. To compensate for his pains and attention, I grant to Mr. Harrison Underdahl the Five Thousand Dollars he has been holding in Trust for this occasion

“At the present time, my property consists in part of real estate in Beacon Hills, California, and in part of securities deposited as followed: with the Beacon Hills Credit Union in Beacon Hills, California; with the stockbroker Mr. Gregory Cambridge in Beacon Hills, California; with the Bank of America in Charlotte, North Carolina.

“This Will and Testament is up to now the only one valid, and revokes all my previous testamentary dispositions, should any such exist after my death.

“Finally, it is my express wish that following my death, my remains shall be cremated and placed in a small plot connected to my late wife, Claudia Evelyn Stilinski.

“Beacon Hills, California, The United States, 17 June, 2016. Noah Michael Stilinski.

“That Mr. Noah Michael Stilinski, being of sound mind, has of his own free will declared the above to be his last Will and Testament, and that he has signed the same, we have, in his presence and the presence of each other, hereunto subscribed our names as witnesses:

“Harrison Abel Underdahl, Attorney at Law, 37 Pleasant St, Beacon Hills, California; Charles Christopher Andrew Hanson, Attorney at Law, 1479 County Rd 14, Beacon Hills, California; Alfred Bernhard Matthews, Attorney at Law, 933 Jamestown Circle, Beacon Hills, California.”

Harrison sat the document down on his desk, and looked back up at Stiles. “Do you have any questions, Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles sat for a few moments, staring back and forth between Harrison and the document. “Um, no, I don’t think so.”

Nodding, Harrison said, “The firm will take care of transferring the accounts into your name, as well as getting the deed and title to your home put into your name. What I need from you, Mr. Stilinski, is simply a signature at the bottom of this page, stating that I have read to you the last Will and Testament of your father.” He passed a simple sheet of paper across the table to Stiles. 

Stiles didn’t take the time to read the paper. He signed and dated the paper, then passed it back to Harrison. 

“Very good,” Harrison said, putting the sheet and the Will back into the manila folder he’d pulled them out of. “I will be in touch when all of the ownership rights have been transferred.” Harrison stood, and put an arm across the table. 

It took Stiles a few minutes to realize that he was supposed to stand up and shake Harrison’s hand. That this was his dismissal from the office. 

He did it, he shook Harrison’s hand, he walked out of the office, out of the building, and to his Jeep.

Stiles managed not to start crying until he was safely tucked away in his Jeep.

 

Stiles spent the rest of the afternoon laying on his couch and staring at the ceiling, trying not to think. Of course, outside of when he was in a state of shock, Stiles had never really been able to turn his brain off, even when he really needed to.

The Will spiraled through Stiles’ mind, followed by his father’s advanced directive, the post-its all over his house, what his mom would have been saying to him right now, what his dad would have been saying to him right now, and finally landed on _why_.

Why had his dad died? Some psychopathic werewolf had killed him, in a dumb grab for power. Intellectually, Stiles knew that. 

But why had the werewolf thought that killing Stiles’ dad would get him somewhere? Because Stiles was a member of the pack. Because Stiles’ dad had been human, and an easy target.

Because Stiles’ dad had been family to the pack, and they would naturally be upset by his death.

It followed, then, that if Stiles hadn’t been a member of the pack, his dad would still be alive. If Stiles hadn’t taken the supernatural in and treated it like some sort of calling -- some sort of _curiosity_ \-- his dad would still be alive. 

Stiles’ dad’s had died because Stiles was a member of a werewolf pack. Stiles’ dad had died because he was human, and because he was related to a member of a werewolf pack.

It was Stiles’ fault that his father was dead. It was Stiles’ fault that a required, once-yearly Will and Testament had been read to him, at least thirty years too soon. It was Stiles’ fault that he was all alone, in house covered in post-its.

If Stiles hadn’t been a member of a werewolf pack.

If werewolves hadn’t come back to Beacon Hills. 

If Laura Hale had never come back to Beacon Hills, if Peter Hale had never been psychotic enough to murder his own niece. If Derek Hale hadn’t come looking for his sister.

If werewolves had never come back to Beacon Hills, Stiles would never have joined a werewolf pack. There would have been no pack to join. Stiles’ dad would still be alive. 

Stiles had made the decision to join the pack. He knew that. What had the Will said? Stiles had, _being of sound mind, had of his own free will_ joined a werewolf pack. He’d known it was dangerous. He’d known it was probably a stupid decision. He had even gone into it kicking and screaming. 

But he’d caved. He’d gotten to know the werewolves -- gotten to know Derek -- and he’d stayed. He’d helped. He’d become a member of the pack, humor or not.

And it had gotten his father killed.

If the werewolves had never returned to Beacon Hills, if Stiles had never gotten involved, his father would still be alive. 

Stiles didn’t know if he would ever forgive himself for that.

 

When Stiles arrived at Wong’s, the local Chinese restaurant, everyone else was already there. They were all talking, but more quietly than usual. Subdued. Seeing a normally rowdy group of humans and werewolves sitting and quietly discussing what Stiles could only assume was him, and his response to his dad’s death.

Derek was the first to spot him, and Stiles raised a hand as he walked over to the table. There was an empty chair between Derek and Scott, and Stiles took it gratefully. 

“We already ordered,” Allison said, giving him the smallest smile. “I hope you don’t mind. We ordered the sesame chicken for you.”

Stiles nodded. “Cool,” he said. Stiles felt Derek’s hand on his leg, and he reached down to lace their fingers together. It was grounding, and Stiles could feel his pulse slowing to match Derek’s. 

There was an awkward pause at the table, everyone trying to think of something to say, but coming up with nothing. 

Finally, Derek said, “The funeral and the wake are set. They’ll both be at the Memorial Center, like your dad wanted.”

Stiles nodded. “Thanks.” He thought of holding a wake in his post-it covered house. The Memorial Center was much better. Less personal. Less like a serial killer had used the walls to plan out his next kill.

“I thought we could all help set up,” Lydia said. She was sitting unusually close to Jackson, even though they were dating. Almost as if she was using him to hold her up.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Erica added. “Our own way to make sure it’s how it should be.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Okay.”

Derek squeezed his hand, and Stiles was saved from having to deal with any more of the conversation when the food arrived, enough to cover the table.

Having his friends -- the pack -- around was comforting. He had known it would be.

The problem was, a little piece of Stiles didn’t want to be comforted. It didn’t want to feel better. It wanted to remember that _this was his fault_ , and Stiles didn’t deserve to feel better. It wanted to wallow, and hate, and feel bitter.

Stiles knew it was wrong. He’d given the lectures himself. “You can’t control the actions of others.” “People do things of their own free will; you can’t stop them.” “Things happen that are out of our control all the time. We can’t stare at the past and see where we could have changed it. We can only be here, in the present, and learn to move past it.”

All of those things, Stiles knew.

He also knew that while they were true, they were almost impossible to accept unless you wanted to accept them. Stiles didn’t want to accept. Stiles wanted to remember this had been _his fault_. He didn’t ever want to forget. 

Stiles ate silently, letting his friends fill the silence around him. Allison had been accepted to the Sonoma State University Philosophy program, which focused on pre-law and ethics. She wanted to be a lawyer, eventually, and this seemed like the most direct route for her, if she wanted to stay near Beacon Hills. Scott had also been accepted, in spite of his somewhat lacking attendance records, to Sonoma State. He was going to be in their Biochemistry department, hoping to someday go to medical school. 

In fact, most of the pack had applied to Sonoma State, Stiles included, to try and stay close together. Boyd had decided he hadn’t wanted to go to a university, and had instead applied to Beacon Hills Community College. Erica and Isaac had also been accepted to Sonoma State, but they didn’t know what they were looking to study, and so had applied for the General Studies program until they did. 

Jackson’s family had pushed for him to go to a good business school, and his father had submitted to San Francisco State’s Business Management program, so long as Jackson got his MBA afterward. Lydia had, of course, only applied to Ivy League schools in order to pursue Applied Mathematics. She had been accepted to MIT, Harvard, Berkeley, and Columbia. In other words, all of the schools she’d applied to. She was trying to decide which she liked best, and which had the best Ph.D. lead-in program. 

Stiles had applied to Sonoma State and Beacon Hills Community College, as far as his friends knew. He’d been intending to go to one or the other, and stay close to the pack. He’d also applied to the CalTech, MIT, and Berkeley, just to see if he could get in. 

He had, to all of them. He’d told his friends he wanted to go into Anthropology at Sonoma State.

That felt like a long time ago.

They’d all applied on early admissions, the better to discuss their options with the pack as a whole. 

Now, Stiles didn’t know. He hadn’t known his father had put away money for him to attend college. If he was going to honor that, could he really go to Sonoma State, to study something he wasn’t really interested in, at a school where he wouldn’t feel challenged? 

“Stiles?”

Stiles brought his attention back to the conversation at the table, his brain helpfully informing him that while he’d been half paying attention, they’d reached the point in the conversation where they wanted to know what Stiles had found out.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, taking a drink of water. “I got my letters. I got in to everything.”

“That’s awesome!” Allison said, smiling until her dimples looked cleaved into place.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He thought about telling them that he wasn’t sure anymore. He thought about why it mattered. He said, “I applied to a couple other schools, too. Heard back from those, too.”

There was silence at the table for a moment. “Which schools?” Lydia asked, holding her composure. 

“CalTech, MIT, and Berkeley,” Stiles said. He felt Derek’s hand tighten on his. Maybe this hadn’t been the most tactful way for him to find out. 

That little piece of Stiles couldn’t find it in him to care. That little piece was growing.

“That’s fantastic,” Lydia said. “What do you think you’re going to do?”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I’m going to think about it. Early Admission decisions aren’t required until the end of November.”

“That’s true,” Lydia said. “I’m going to tour each of my schools and see what their departments _really_ look like before I commit to one.”

“That’s good,” Stiles said. He really was proud that Lydia had stopped pretending she was an airhead, just because she thought being brilliant wouldn’t make her as popular.

A lot of priorities had changed since the pack had formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Will is pretty standard stuff, though a little outdated, because I actually based it on that of Alfred Bernhard Nobel. I kind of figured the Sheriff deserved it. Also Wills and Trusts was probably the easiest class I took in law school. Unless you have like five declensions of heirs, in which case, fuck that shit.


	10. In Which Stiles Sort of Loses His Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone who's commented so much late: thank you, you are the air that I breathe, I hope I didn't get that song stuck in your head.
> 
> Also: in my opinion? This chapter is the most depressing. I don't know if that's for everyone, or just because I had to come up with the things that are said. But, um, warnings.
> 
> Trigger warnings: verbal abuse (it's right at the beginning; skip down to Stiles throwing his phone if you do not want to read it, and I'll summarize in the end note).
> 
> Finally, did you know there are 140 people subscribed to this? I mean, guys. You're all amazing and I love you. Just saying.  
>  **Edit** : By which I mean, a few hours later, 167. You guys seriously rock.

Stiles let the conversation drift on around him. Someone had noticed Derek’s tension and changed the subject. Stiles wasn’t sure who it had been, but suddenly they were talking about Winter Formal, coming up in two weeks. 

Stiles couldn’t fathom caring about anything less. Sure, this was the first Winter Formal he would actually have a date to -- if he managed to talk Derek into it -- but it would also be the first Winter Formal his dad didn’t give him the “no alcohol, get home safe, make sure Scott doesn’t do anything stupid” speech. The one he was pretty sure had a counterpart that his dad gave to Scott, only substituting Stiles’ name for Scott’s. 

Scott was talking about renting a limo and splitting it between them.

Allison thought it was a great idea. Erica was only in if there was going to be alcohol. Boyd was reminding her she couldn’t really get drunk. Lydia was sitting back and watching the conversation like its participants were extremely interesting guinea pigs she was running tests on. Jackson was playing a game on his phone.

Derek hadn’t spoken since Stiles had said he’d applied to a few schools he hadn’t mentioned. He was probably upset.

Stiles couldn’t find it in him to care. 

After ten more minutes that had included dress shopping, tux rental, whether or not they should wear matching flowers, and what restaurant they should go to beforehand, the conversation jerked to a half. 

Stiles couldn’t figure out why for a few good seconds before he realized it was him. He had said, loudly, and rudely, “Shut up!”

“Stiles?” Scott asked, apparently the only one willing to break through the silence.

“Who the fuck cares about the Winter Formal?” Stiles asked. “I mean, it’s a bunch of sweaty teenagers in a room, pretending they don’t have a care in the world. Half the people in there are dateless, or with back-up dates, and wishing they weren’t so alone, and the other half have peaked there, at that dance, and will wish they could be those sweaty teenagers again, twenty years from now.”

“Stiles--” Scott started.

“No, seriously,” Stiles said. “That’s all this is. A meaningless event made to make us feel like we’re special, and that this is one of the best moments of our lives. And how fucking sad is that? That a high school dance should be a “moment.” Something that we remember forever? That we’ll remember this dance years from now because nothing more important, or memorable, has happened to push it from our minds.”

“Stiles,” Lydia said sharply. “We know the dance is meaningless. We’re only talking about it because no one wants to make you talk about your dad. The dance is a normal, teenager thing that we can do, when the rest of our lives are anything but normal and teenager. Stop yelling at Scott.”

Stiles pulled his hand from Derek’s, needing both to gesticulate as wildly as he was speaking. “Why don’t you want me to talk about my dad? Because it’s depressing? Because you’re all worried I’m going to fucking break? Newsflash: not talking about it isn’t going to make it _not have happened_. It’s depressing whether we talk about it or not.” He paused. “And if you think it’s going to break me, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Stiles,” Allison said quietly. “We don’t think you’re going to break. We just wanted to give you something else to think about, just for a little while.”

Stiles laughed, ignoring that it had come out more hysterical than he had intended. “Something else to think about? It’s all I can fucking think about. How it happened. Why it happened. How it could have gone differently. I’m not going to stop thinking about it just to talk about the fucking Winter Formal, or college, or the future, or anything else. I had to listen to my dad’s Will today. Guess what? Everything goes to me. Why? Because there isn’t anyone else. There is no more family. Everything he might have Willed to someone else goes to be, because there is no someone else. My entire family is dead.”

“And you know what else?” Stiles asked, continuing before someone could try to cut him off. “It’s my fault. I mean, not just my fault, I understand there a dead, psychopathic werewolf to give some credit to, but mostly, yeah, it’s my fault. What’s the legal terminology for it? The direct cause is the psychopath, the proximate cause is me. In the law, both get prosecuted. Why? Because the proximate perpetrator is just as culpable for what his actions have caused.”

“Stiles!” Lydia yelled, and Stiles stopped. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard Lydia yelled. One hand, minus a few fingers. It was enough to derail him, if only for a moment. “How could you even _think_ this is your fault?” Lydia asked, her voice still raised, though she was no longer yelling. “The actions of some idiotic, power-hungry beta have nothing to do with you. Your dad died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a psychopath stepped into that place.”

“Why did the psychopath step into that place?” Stiles asked. He noticed his voice was calm again with what was probably the only still-functioning piece of his mind. The rest was gone, and Stiles could feel it. “Why did he kill my dad, and not one of the thousands of other humans roaming around Beacon Hills at any given time? Why did he take the risk of killing the Sheriff? Because he wanted to upset the pack. He wanted to get his own damn Alpha killed, and he wanted to take over his own pack. He couldn’t do that if he killed one of us, that would have started a blood feud. No, he had to kill someone important, but someone who wasn’t pack. That meant someone human. He made a logical deduction, and decided killing my dad was the most likely option for getting him what he wanted. Psychopath or not, his logic wasn’t too far off. 

“I’m sleeping with Derek. I probably smell just as much like him as I do myself. Obviously, I’m important. I’m human. I have human family. Ergo, the perfect target. He killed my dad because killing me would have been too much. I’m pack. If I wasn’t pack, my dad wouldn’t be dead. If I had never decided hey, werewolves, that’s a great idea, my dad wouldn’t be dead. If there had been no pack to join, my dad wouldn’t be dead.”

Stiles looked around the table at the wide eyes staring back at him. He hadn’t meant to say that.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t true -- he just hadn’t meant to say it.

“Fuck,” Stiles said. “Fuck. I’m going home, Jesus, before I say anything else.” He grabbed his coat from the back of his seat and walked away from the table at a pace that was just short of a run.

Derek caught up with him before he even reached his Jeep. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, catching Stiles’ wrist.

“Don’t, Derek,” Stiles said, pulling away. “Just don’t. Go back inside, or go home, or go _wherever_ before I start yelling even more things at you that I can’t take back.”

“Stiles--” Derek started again before Stiles cut him off.

“I’m serious, Derek,” Stiles said. “I’m going home. I need to go home. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see anyone, I just want to be alone.” He took the few extra steps to his Jeep and wrenched the door open.

“I don’t think you should be alone like this,” Derek said, stepping over and putting a hand on the Jeep’s door. “Maybe you don’t want me to be there. That’s fine. But Scott, or Isaac--”

“Derek!” Stiles yelled, cutting him off again. “No one. There is no one I want to see right now, except my dad, and we know how fucking likely that is. So please, let me go, before I tell you everything else I’m thinking right now.”

Derek let go of the door to the Jeep, and Stiles swung inside. “What are you thinking, Stiles?” he asked quietly. 

“Nothing you want to hear,” Stiles said, pulling the Jeep’s door shut and starting the engine. He wanted until Derek stepped back before he drove out of the lot. 

When he got back to the house, Stiles had a message from Derek on his phone. That little piece of himself -- bigger piece of himself -- made him open it. 

**Derek Hale (20:12, 26 October 2016)**  
I’m here if you need me. I love you.

Stiles threw his phone at the couch and watched it bounce off the cushions and onto the floor with a strange sense of satisfaction.

 

Stiles felt a certain amount of guilt the next day. Probably not as much as he should have, but he did feel it. Nothing in his mind had changed; in his heart it was still his and the pack’s fault that his father had died. 

He still needed to apologize. Blaming everyone, blaming himself, wouldn’t change the fact that his father had died. He knew that. And shoving his friends away would only make it worse, in the long run.

 **Outgoing (09:17, 27 October 2016)**  
Hey. I’m sorry for being an ass. You didn’t deserve that.

 **Scott McCall (09:21, 27 October, 2016)**  
No need to apologize, man. U needed to do it. 

**Scott McCall (09:21, 27 October 2016)**  
U want some company?

 **Outgoing (09:22, 27 October 2016)**  
Not really. I’m just going to buy some boxes and pack a few things up.

 **Scott McCall (09:23, 27 October 2016)**  
Dinner later? Mom’s cooking.

 **Outgoing (09:23, 27 October 2016)**  
Sure. 7?

 **Scott McCall (09:24, 27 October 2016)**  
Yup.

 **Outgoing (09:24, 27 October 2016)**  
See you then.

Stiles put his phone down and leaned into the kitchen chair he’d fallen into after three hours of sleep. Apologizing to Scott had been exhausting. He stared at the table and his cooling coffee for a few minutes before getting up to get his keys. 

It took ten minutes and twenty dollars to get him in and out of the U-Haul store with enough boxes to get everything he wanted to move to storage packed. When he got home, he went up into the attic to start dragging all the boxes up there down and into the foyer. He separated them into color piles and taped together some of his new boxes and headed into his dad’s study. 

By three o’clock, he was done packing away everything he wanted to put in storage, and he had boxes to spare. He packed up most of the items he wanted to donate by the time he ran out of boxes. 

It had helped. Stiles felt calmer, somehow. Like he’d regained some little piece of control over his life. He sat down on the couch and looked around the room. It was a lot emptier than it had been a few hours ago. Most everything in there he’d labeled for either storage or donation. Stiles still wanted to sell the house. He couldn’t imagine changing his mind. A small, one-bedroom apartment seemed like enough space for one teenaged person, and that meant he wouldn’t need as much in the way of decoration or furniture.

He couldn’t stand to look at most of it, either.

Stiles picked his phone up from the now-lampless side table where he’d set it down after getting back from the U-Haul store. He had six unread text messages, and one unheard voicemail. 

The voicemail simply said, “Mr. Stilinski, this is Dan Adams, from AllState Insurance. I’m calling to let you know that a check for your father’s life insurance has been issued and mailed to the attorney your father put on file. If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call me at 707-555-8794.”

Stiles mechanically took down the number on the post-it sitting on the side table -- keep -- and deleted the message. He looked at his messages. He had one from Scott, two from Lydia, one from Erica, one from Isaac, and one, surprisingly, from Jackson. He clicked through them one at a time.

 **Scott McCall (12:07, 27 October 2016)**  
Mom said she’s making spaghetti. Let me know if that’s not ok.

 **Lydia Martin (13:17, 27 October 2016)**  
While I don’t quite think yelling was called for, we all know that you’re hurting. No one’s upset with you.

 **Lydia Martin (13:20, 27 October 2016)**  
And Stiles, no matter what logical deduction you’re following, or how valid and supported it may be, I hope you listen when I tell you it’s not your fault that your father is dead. You don’t have so much power that you can control what others decide to do, nor do you know how to tell the future. If we wanted, we could trace every awful thing that happens to some supposed catalyst, somewhere, that makes it our fault. It’s easy to do that. It’s easy to say it was your fault, that the pain your feeling is only fair, and that you don’t have the right to feel better. It’s easy to stay in that place and never start feeling better. You’ve never taken the easy way, Stiles. Don’t do it this time.

 **Erica Reyes (13:57, 27 October 2016)**  
Just wanted to let you know it’s okay. We all love you Stiles. Boyd says to say you can yell all you want if it helps.

 **Isaac Lahey (15:22, 27 October 2016)**  
You’re one of the best people I know, Stiles. You’ve always been there for me. Remember I’m here for you, too.

 **Jackson Whittemore (16:47, 27 October 2016)**  
Last night was kind of shitty, but you deserve to be shitty sometimes. I’m shitty all the time. I know what hating yourself feels like. No matter how shitty you are, you’re still you, and that’s important.

Stiles clicked the screen of his phone off and let it drop into his lap. His watch told him it was almost six o’clock, and the smell told him he really needed to shower before he went to the McCalls’ for dinner. 

The little bit of control Stiles had found was wearing off quickly. By the time Stiles was out of the shower, all he wanted to do was sit down on the couch and watch mindless television until he passed out.

Dinner was better. Stiles knew that. He wasn’t going to start feeling human again until he’d spent more time out of his house and around other people. Knowing and feeling were two very different things.

Hair still dripping onto his collar, Stiles made his way back downstairs and dropped onto the couch. His watch told him he had forty-five minutes before he needed to head to dinner. He unlocked his phone and clicked into his favorites. The phone rang twice before Derek’s voice came over the line.

“Hi,” Derek said, his voice soft and a little tinny.

“Hey,” Stiles said, leaning back into the couch. “Sorry for being an asshole.”

A small noise on the line told Stiles that Derek had shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“It’s really not, though,” Stiles said. “It was probably too many people, too quickly, and I didn’t even think, I just yelled.”

“No one’s upset with you,” Derek said. “It’s really all right.”

“I know no one’s upset with me. The pile of text messages got that one across,” Stiles said. “That still doesn’t make it okay.”

There was a pause. “No,” Derek said finally, “it doesn’t, but we all forgive you.”

This time the silence was Stiles’. “Thanks,” Stiles said.

“What have you been doing?” Derek asked, clearly changing the subject. Stiles appreciated that, which was probably why Derek had done it.

“Packing,” Stiles said. “Stuff I want to put into storage and stuff I want to donate.”

“Memories?”

“No, I’m going to sell the house,” Stiles said, waiting a moment before he continued. “Which, yeah, I suppose is memories. I just don’t need everything there, you know? And I don’t need a two-storey house to myself.”

“It makes sense,” Derek said. 

“I own it now. Getting the deed in my name as we speak. Probably not as we speak, actually, I think county departments close at five, but I still own the house,” Stiles said. After a few moments of quiet, Stiles continued, “I’ve got everything labeled. Little Post-Its. Toss, donate, give to people who might want it, storage, and keep. I stuck one on the wall of the living room, too, and just put sell. I don’t know if it’ll help, but at least I won’t have to keep it up.” Another pause. “God, Derek, fucking say something.”

“Do you want help?” Derek asked.

“What?”

Derek cleared his throat. “Packing. I can help you pack.”

Stiles looked at the place where the lamp had used to sit. “Sure. I have to pick up more boxes tomorrow morning, and then call the Salvation Army so they can pick up all the donations.”

“When do you want me to come over?” Derek asked, his voice still light and tinny, the way it had been since Stiles had called.

“Tonight?” Stiles said, less a statement than a question.

“Okay. What time?”

“I’m having dinner with Scott and Melissa at seven, so ten?” Stiles asked, leaning further into the couch cushions.

“Sure,” Derek said. “Should I bring anything?”

“No,” Stiles said. “I mean, I’ll get boxes and more tape in the morning, and everything’s already labeled.”

“Okay,” Derek said. “Do you want to hear about the funeral?”

“No,” Stiles said, not pausing to let himself think. “Just the time and date. I’ll write something to say. I trust you.”

“Then I’ll pick you up Saturday at twelve-thirty,” Derek said, taking all the details off the table and back to himself.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Okay. That works. Thanks.”

“Anything,” Derek replied and Stiles closed his eyes. “You know that.”

“I do, yeah. I know that.” He did. Stiles did know Derek would do anything for him. It was both comforting and terrifying. Stiles was pretty sure he was too young to love Derek as much as he did. Something about brain cells and neural pathways and other things he’d absorbed from watching too much late-night National Geographic Channel. “I should probably get ready to go to Scott’s,” Stiles said quietly.

“All right,” Derek said. “I’ll see you at ten. I love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped Stiles yelling: he basically said aloud all the horrible things he thought in chapter nine. That it's his fault, and also that it's everyone else's fault. Then he stormed off. It's not a horribly long scene.
> 
> Also: I'm still sorry.


	11. In Which Stiles Packs and Lets Things Be a Little Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry about how long it took for this chapter to get up. Until yesterday, I wasn't supposed to use my left arm (I got rear-ended, the back half of my car is gone, I sprained my rotator cuff and pinched a nerve; stupid Boston traffic). As soon as I got the okay to use it, I finished this for you guys (well, okay, I skipped yesterday, because getting poked to see if something's healing makes it feel like it sure isn't). This chapter is a bit shorter because I wanted it to happen for you as soon as possible, so I cut a couple (really unimportant) things. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: 
> 
> Age-Appropriate Angst  
> The Funeral
> 
> If I have it my way, there will only be one more flashback chapter. If Stiles has it his way, there will be like twelve. Fortunately, he's a fictional character, so I can probably win this fight, even with a bum arm.
> 
> All of your comments and kudos made this whole accident and arm thing so much better, so thank you, folks.

Stiles woke up the next morning warm, in full-on little spoon position. Dinner with the McCalls had gone well, for some definition of the word “well.” They’d successfully avoided talking about any of the things that were going on, instead focusing on the math midterm Scott was freaking out about and whether or not more duct tape was necessary to keep the Jeep’s main belt pulley in place. 

It had been comfortable, and Stiles had needed it. 

He lay there, warm sunlight from the window falling across his blankets and face, Derek curled around him, for a few more minutes before he noticed his phone trying to tell him he had a message. Derek’s arm tightened around his waist when he reached to grab his phone, but not in the way that meant Stiles had woken him. More, the way that meant Derek liked to know exactly where Stiles was at all times, even in his sleep.

When Stiles clicked his phone open, it was to two messages. 

**Lydia Martin (23:47, 27 October 2016)**  
I’ve decided we’re having brunch tomorrow at eleven. As far as the school is concerned, I’ve developed a 24-hour stomach bug.

Stiles smiled to himself as he moved on to the second message. 

**Melissa McCall (05:48, 28 October 2016)**  
It was good to see you last night, Stiles. You don’t stay for dinner as often as you used to, you know. You’re always welcome.

Stiles text back a quick thanks to Mrs. McCall, then scrolled back to Lydia’s message. 

**Outgoing (08:22, 28 October 2016)**  
Bring it over? Derek and I are packing things.

He wasn’t surprised when Lydia’s response was almost immediate.

 **Lydia Martin (08:26, 28 October 2016)**  
Lazy. If we’re packing, I’m bringing Jackson. He and Derek can carry things.

 **Outgoing (08:27, 28 October 2016)**  
Now who’s lazy? Boyfriends are not just for carrying things.

 **Lydia Martin (08:28, 28 October 2016)**  
Of course not. The sex is just less useful in this context.

Stiles let out a laugh without meaning to.

 **Outgoing (08:28, 28 October 2016)**  
Fair enough. See you at 11.

He clicked his phone shut and rolled himself around so he was facing Derek. He wasn’t surprised Derek was awake; he’d have been more surprised if wasn’t, considering Stiles hadn’t exactly laughed softly.

“Good morning,” Stiles said, placing a hand on Derek’s bare shoulder.

Derek rolled onto his back and pulled Stiles with him. “Good morning,” he repeated. 

Stiles leaned down to kiss Derek not-so-briefly. “Lydia’s bringing brunch at eleven.”

“Of course she is,” Derek said, pulling Stiles more snugly down and against his chest. 

“We need to get boxes before then,” Stiles said, poking Derek in the side. “Apparently she and Jackson are going to help with the packing.”

“Right,” Derek said, huffing into Stiles’ neck. “Help.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, “I’m going to pack, you and Jackson are going to carry things, and Lydia is going to turn my post-its into some sort of insane organizational hierarchy.” Derek huffed again. “More insane,” Stiles amended. 

“Sounds right,” Derek said. He pulled his arms over his head and stretched in a spine-cracking sort of way. “I’ll make coffee.”

“Is it pointless to shower before moving heavy things?” Stiles asked, rolling so Derek could stand, but making no effort to get up himself.

“Usually,” Derek replied, pulling a clean pair of pants out of the stand next to Stiles’ bed and stepping into them. 

Stiles did his own stretching before he asked, “When _isn’t_ it pointless, then?”

Derek pulled out a T-shirt and put it on before replying, “When you don’t know you’re moving heavy things.” He shrugged. “Maybe not less pointless, just more reasonable.”

“Ah, lack of foresight. Totally not a problem we’ve ever had,” Stiles said, rolling off the other side of the bed and hunting for his own clean pants. 

Derek snorted. “God, I wish,” he said, sitting down on the bed to pull on socks. 

Stiles found a pair of pants he was pretty sure were clean. “Honestly? We totally don’t need to know the crazy shit before it happens. I’m pretty sure trying to make it not happen and failing would be worse than it happening in the first place.”

“Trying to keep things from happening and succeeding wouldn’t be worse,” Derek said, standing and heading for the door. 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t really sound like our luck, does it?” Stiles asked, buttoning his jeans before digging a clean shirt out of his unfolded laundry basket. 

“Coffee,” Derek said.

Stiles pulled his shirt over his head. “Coffee,” he agreed.

 

It was after ten by the time he and Derek returned to the house with more boxes. Stiles had calculated how many he might need to finish based on how many he’d already used, then grabbed a few extra, just in case. 

Stiles packed while Derek assembled and moved boxes -- really, werewolf boyfriends were an excellent moving crew, Lydia was right -- and they’d completed finished the Sheriff’s office before Lydia and Jackson arrived. Derek didn’t ask why Stiles wanted it done, instead of keeping to packing one type of box at a time. 

Stiles was pretty sure he knew without the words. Derek had always been good like that.

Lydia gave a perfunctory knock before letting herself into the house. Stiles could hear her directing Jackson to take the food into Stiles’ kitchen as he wiped his hands on his pants and made his way toward her. He felt Derek doing the same just behind him.

“Hey, Lyds,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “That looks good.” Stiles gestured to the pile of food Jackson was spreading out on the counter. Lydia had apparently raided one of the diners near the highway, because Stiles recognized the gooey eggs he liked best. Just this side of real food.

“Of course it does,” Lydia said. “It’s your favorite.” She grinned. “Now get some plates so we can eat.”

Stiles laughed as he pulled four plates out of the cupboard and Derek grabbed glasses. 

“Now, what do you mean, packing?” Lydia asked, taking a plate from Stiles and loading it with enough bacon to give her an instant heart attack. Stiles loved when Lydia ate like a normal person. Jackson apparently just found it disconcerting, based by the look on his face. 

“I mean packing,” Stiles said, loading up his plate and sitting down at the table. 

Lydia sat across from him. “Are you going to sell the house?” she asked.

Stiles nodded. He also appreciated when Lydia didn’t beat around the bush. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t need this much space.”

“Do you have family nearby?” Lydia asked, giving Stiles a thin-eyed look. “You haven’t mentioned any.”

“Nope,” he said. “My closest family lives in SoCal, a great aunt or something. I figured I’d get an apartment. Better space.” Stiles shrugged. “I’m eighteen, I don’t have to do the find-family-and-live-with-them thing from TV.”

Lydia shrugged. “It seems kind of lonely. I’m sure Mrs. McCall would let you move in.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Stiles said honestly. He really hadn’t. 

“Well, do what you want,” Lydia said. “Just remember you _do_ have family nearby.”

Stiles gave Lydia a crooked grin. “Yeah, I will.” He knew it was true: the pack was his family. He also knew something else was true: part of him just really, really wanted to be alone. Stiles shoved that aside before he continued, “No matter what I’m doing, I have way too much crap.” He gestured to the house behind him. “I mean, half the stuff in this house hasn’t been used in years.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Lydia asked, standing up to drop her empty plate into the sink. The bacon was gone. Stiles was impressed. “I assume you have some sort of system?”

“Yup,” Stiles said, standing to dispose of his own empty plate. “Colored post-its.”

Lydia gave him another look, though this one seemed to be saying something like, “Oh Stiles, you poor, dear thing.”

“What?” he asked. “It works.”

 

The four of them spent the rest of the day packing, plus or minus a few people. Stiles got calls or texts from the rest of their friends -- their pack -- throughout the day, and people stopped by to help after school and between obligations. Derek left for a while in the afternoon on some errands that Stiles pretended to be oblivious about. 

By the time eight rolled around, everything except for the kitchen, upstairs bathroom, and Stiles’ bedroom had been packed. Stiles didn’t want to pack the last three until he knew where he was going, and Lydia had agreed. Vehemently.

The Salvation Army was scheduled to do a pick-up Monday at noon, Stiles had rented a storage unit on the west side of town, and Jackson, Scott, and Isaac had taken the things Stiles wanted thrown out to the public reclamation site. They’d all agreed to have their usual Sunday pack meeting on the furniture Stiles had kept in his living room so that pack members could go through the things Stiles had set aside to see if they wanted or could use anything, and then the rest would go with the boxes originally set aside for donation.

By the time everyone left Friday night, Stiles was pretty sure he had made up for yelling, and he was doing a pretty good job ignoring the part of him that didn’t care about how anyone else felt.

Derek was the last to leave, and it was with a promise to pick Stiles up the next day for the funeral. Stiles had kissed him goodnight and shut the door, locking it against he didn’t even know what. 

Stiles made it up the stairs and into the shower before he just sat down and cried.

 

Stiles would have liked the funeral to be a haze, but it wasn’t. He knew he would remember every detail for the rest of his life. 

Part of him was glad. His father had earned that -- to be respected and remembered always, both the good and the bad. 

Another, larger, darker part of Stiles only wanted the day to be over, to have never happened, and to be something Stiles never thought of again.

 

“While maybe not everyone in Beacon Hills knew him, everyone was affected by him. My dad was the Sheriff of Beacon Hills County for eight years. He kept the city safe when he could, and made it safe again when he couldn’t. That’s who he was: safety. That’s what everyone will remember when they think of him: Sheriff Noah Stilinski.

“Well, maybe not everyone. For the people in this room, my dad was a whole lot more, for a lot of different reasons. I can’t name them all -- I don’t even know them all. Maybe he helped you out, maybe he solved your case, or maybe he just delivered bad news to you as well as he could. My dad was a lot of things to a lot of people. To me, he was a whole lot of things, wrapped into one: my dad.

“He was the guy who helped me learn how to ride a bike, and the guy who carried me back to the house when the first thing I wanted to try was the big hill on Oak. He was the guy who helped me with my homework until he took one look at the Pythagorean equation and told me he was real proud of how smart I was, but I was on my own for that one. He was the guy who explained to me, over and over again, how my mom wasn’t coming home, even though every time he told me, it broke his heart all over again.

“My dad was a great man, but he was an even better dad. I could tell you the thousands of ways he helped me become who I am, and the thousands more ways he made sure that who I am is someone to be proud of, but I won’t. We’d be here forever, and I think you all already know. He did those things for you, too, or you wouldn’t be here.

“So I’m just gonna say I love you, dad, and nothing will ever be the same without you. But, because of you, I have the strength to know that things will go on, and they’ll even get better. You taught me to be strong, and you’d be pissed as hell if I didn’t go on to do all the things I’m able to do because you never let me think I couldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not gonna lie: I'm still in the second half of season five (I'll catch up, I promise) and just now learned the Sheriff's first name is Noah, so I've changed that in my story draft, but not the chapters yet. It's right in this chapter. 
> 
> Also, if anyone knows for sure how long he was sheriff, let me know, because I just made that shit up. I know in the flashback to the Hale fire and such, he's a deputy, so it's sometime between then and now. If he was the senior deputy at the scene, it makes sense that it was a very short time after that. That's all the logic I've got.
> 
> Also, I originally wanted to write the actual funeral, then decided there's only so much angst I can write. So you just get the angstiest part. Oops.
> 
> Yes, new tags on story.


	12. In Which Stiles Finishes His Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the flashback, as promised. Obviously generic crap happens between the end and the flashback at the beginning of the fic, but this should help you see how it got there.
> 
> My arm is healing nicely, still goes numb when I use it too much, but you should expect at least one chapter in the next week. Hopefully I'm back to accidentally writing like four chapters in a day. That would be nice.
> 
> More notes at the end.

Stiles made himself go back to school on November first. He could be sad anywhere, but missing class was only going to put him further and further behind, which was going to suck. He had Lydia’s notes -- which were terrifying -- but that wasn’t the same as actually being on top of things. 

Plus, he’d always learned best with Scott poking him every few minutes, anyway.

“Dude, Miss Collins is going to chuck that book at your head if you don’t stop leaning across the aisle,” Stiles whispered, knowing Scott would hear him.

Scott leaned toward Stiles, said, “Yeah, but are you sure you should be here? Like, really sure?” and ignored the potent glare Miss Collins was giving him from the front of the room.

Stiles was pretty sure the school-wide memo that Stiles was to be treated like grandma’s porcelain was the only reason he and Scott hadn’t been kicked out of class yet. “Yes, now pay attention, or you really are going to fail English.”

It did feel nice to be back to some version of normal. A normal where he spent most of his free time with werewolves and other assorted supernatural beings, his homework was probably his third priority, and he slept in an empty, echoing house.

When class let out, Stiles followed Scott out into the parking lot to meet up with Allison and Lydia next to where Stiles and Scott had parked. 

The pack was still operating on the same memo the school was, but at least they were trying to pretend that they weren’t: Lydia immediately insulted Stiles’ plaid and Allison and Scott went for each other like particularly happy magnets.

“Are we doing movie night tonight?” Scott asked, once he’d come up for air. 

“Is it Tuesday?” Lydia asked, giving Scott a condescending look.

Scott put his hands up in the air. “What, I’m not allowed to ask?” Scott said. 

“You always ask,” Allison said, lacing their fingers together. “And it’s always movie night on Tuesdays.”

“Maybe it’s always movie night on Tuesdays because I always ask,” Scott said, grinning. “Had you thought of that?”

“No,” Lydia said flatly. “It was Isaac’s turn to pick last week, so it’s Erica’s this week.” She grimaced. “That means something gory again.”

“Nah, I picked a B-level mystery this time,” Erica said, joining them with Isaac and Boyd. “You and Stiles can tell us who did it five minutes in and spend the rest of the movie pointing out all of the obvious clues. It’ll be great.”

Lydia’s phone buzzed and she checked it quickly. “Jackson says he and Danny are putting in the pizza order.” She glanced up at Stiles. “Do we need popcorn?”

“Why ask me?” Stiles asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Because Derek isn’t within shouting distance,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes, “and you’re most likely to know what’s in his cupboards.”

“Yeah, because I spent most of my time at Derek’s cooking,” Stiles said.

Scott elbowed him. “Too much, dude. Too much.”

Stiles pulled out his phone. 

**Outgoing (15:12, 1 November 2016)**  
Do we need popcorn?

“There,” Stiles said. “I’ve done my due diligence.”

“Fine,” Lydia said. “Erica, you take Boyd and go grab the movie. The rest of us can go make sure the loft is fit for human company.”

“It was once,” Isaac said. “Once, we forgot to turn the heat on. Once.”

Lydia plucked at the hood to her designer jacket. “Once is enough.”

Isaac rolled his eyes, but followed Allison and Lydia to Lydia’s car. Scott jumped on his bike and Stiles headed for his Jeep. 

Fortunately, the heat was on at the loft, so Lydia didn’t have that particular complaint to voice. She did, however, get annoyed when she opened Derek’s cupboards.

“See?” Lydia said, pointing at the cupboards. “No popcorn. Someone needs to keep track.” She gave Stiles an arch look and Stiles checked his phone. 

“First, you do it,” Stiles said, waving a hand in Lydia direction. “Second, nothing.” He waved his blank phone in Lydia’s direction.

From where he was shoving the couches into some semblance of order, Scott called, “Nothing? Where’s Derek?”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. Out doing Derek things?”

Isaac snorted, but Allison replied, “That’s weird.”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed, giving up on the couches. “No weird offense intended, but he hasn’t been more than ten feet or a phone call away from you since it happened.”

Stiles ignored Scott’s inability to say “since your dad died” and instead replied, “Maybe he’s realized what the rest of you haven’t: I’m not going to fall to pieces if I’m left alone.” Stiles did agree with Scott, though, no matter what he said. He checked his phone again, but he had no new messages. 

Isaac’s phone buzzed around the same time Lydia’s did. 

“Erica and Boyd are on their way with the movie,” Isaac announced, throwing himself into a pile of blankets and pillows next to one of the couches. They’d given up trying to convince him a couch might actually be more comfortable months ago.

If he hadn’t been looking, Stiles never would have noticed the face Lydia made at her phone, like it had just announced it was planning on drowning a bag of kittens. The look was gone by the time she glanced Stiles’ way. “Stiles, let’s go get the popcorn,” she said. “We can’t trust Erica not to just get the heart attack in a box kind.”

As it was, Stiles had absolutely noticed the face Lydia had made at her phone. “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

Every head in the room turned to Stiles, then to Lydia and back again. 

 

“Nothing,” Lydia replied, “except for Erica’s eating habits. Not everyone has a werewolf metabolism.”

“No, seriously,” Stiles said, crossing his arms. “What’s wrong?”

“Lydia?” Allison asked. 

Before Lydia could answer, Scott’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and cussed. 

“Fine, it’s too late to be subtle,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “Not that anyone here is good at it, anyway.” She walked toward Stiles. “Stiles, we’re going to get popcorn. Now. Grab your bag.”

“What the actual f--” Stiles got out before Scott was there, too, shoving him toward the door. 

“Popcorn is a great idea,” Scott said. “Go do that.”

Scott had frog-marched Stiles out of the loft before he had the chance to say anything else, and Lydia was dragging him down the stairs. They were almost out of the building before Stiles dug his heels in. “No, Lydia, what the fuck is going on?”

Lydia threw up her arms. “I have no idea!” 

Stiles clenched his jaw silently. “You have some idea.”

“Fine,” Lydia said. “I’m pretty sure the ridiculousness that is our lives has continued and we’re about to get shit on all over again. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Stiles backed up a few feet. “No!” he shouted, waving his arms out to his sides. “But it’s better if you tell me than march me out like I’m not allowed to know!” Stiles went back up the stairs, Lydia following and cussing under her breath. 

He opened the door to Derek bleeding on the couch, Allison pulling out the first aid kit, and Scott shouting something almost unintelligible.

Stiles got out, “Have you been _shot_?” just as Derek yelled “Lydia, I--” and Lydia yelled “It was never going--”, at which point Isaac roared “Shut the fuck up, everyone!”

Stiles was pretty sure Isaac roaring was what had gotten everyone to pause, not what he’d actually said. In two years, Stiles had heard Isaac roar maybe once, and it had been in response to incredible pain. Stiles shut the fuck up.

Allison jumped back on top of the first aid kit almost immediately as Isaac continued yelling. “Trying to kick Stiles out was stupid, yelling at Lydia won’t fix it, now what the fuck _happened_?”

Erica and Boyd took that moment to burst in and run straight into Stiles and Lydia, who hadn’t moved away from the door, causing the four of them to go down in a heap on the floor. 

There was a moment of silence in the room, broken only by Allison dropping her supplies on the couch next to Derek.

Stiles, Lydia, Erica, and Boyd stared at one another for a few moments before attempting to stand and getting even further entangled before managing it.

“What’s going on?” Erica asked, throwing the DVD down on the kitchen island and storming into the room. “We heard yelling, and you’re bleeding?”

“That’s what everyone would like to know,” Scott got out, throwing his hands in the air. 

“And I was trying to tell you,” Derek said, while Scott growled, “that it was the wrong place at the wrong time. It was just humans trying to kill one another--”

“It was _what_?”

“ _Just_ humans?”

“Where were you, _Detroit_?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m trying to pull out a bullet, stop shouting!” Allison yelled, cutting off the building chaos. “Now hold still, or I’m going to stab you, and it only might be on accident.” Allison brandished the knife she’d been using to try and pluck the bullet out of Derek’s side before getting back to it.

Scott dropped into a pile on the floor, all of his anger seeming to spill out of him. “Jesus fucking Christ,” was all he managed.

“Details,” Lydia snapped, crossing her arms. 

Erica and Boyd went to sit next to where Isaac was still sort of red in the face on the stairs and Stiles stayed where he was, halfway between Lydia and Scott and halfway between pissed and some emotion he was going to call “inappropriate hysterical laughter.”

Derek sighed. “I went for a run, heard some yelling, and went to make sure it wasn’t anything serious. It was a bad gangster movie. One of the men fired off a few shots, hit me, killed the other man, then drove off. I called the police anonymously, gave them the location and the plate number, and headed back here. End of story.”

“So nothing insane is attacking us?” Lydia clarified.

“No,” Derek said, wincing as Allison pulled out the bullet, thankfully in one piece.

She slapped some gauze over the wound haphazardly and stood up to put the kit away. “You’ll heal,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Though I’m not sure it’ll matter after Stiles murders you.”

There was a pause while Allison and the room as a whole seemed to realize what she had said. Before someone else could say something stupid to break the silence, Stiles did.

“So, to make sure we have this straight,” Stiles said, using an arm to follow his point, “you and your shit luck got shot, decided to make everything worse and panic everyone by deciding I shouldn’t be here, and then bled all over a dry clean only couch cover when Deaton could have taken care of this in five minutes without telling anyone?” He put a hand to the side of his head. “Which, while stupid, would have avoided this entire mess?”

Stiles saw Derek wince. “Yes.”

“Oh, good,” Stiles said. “I’m glad I understand. I’m also glad that we’re so used to people being shot that a nineteen-year-old can patch you up while everyone else loses their shit, and are more concerned with you being an idiot than the actual, you know, gunshot wound. That’s so intensely healthy.”

“Stiles,” Derek said slowly.

Stiles waited, and when it seemed like that was all Derek had to say, he continued, “Yeah, I think movie night is canceled.”

Jackson and Danny walked in with the pizza just as Stiles finished speaking. 

“What the fuck?” Jackson asked as they both stopped in the doorway to stare.

“Yeah, sweetie, we’re leaving,” Lydia said, scooping up her purse and ushering both boys back out of the loft, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Good plan,” Allison said, grabbing Scott by the wrist. “We’ll see you at school, Stiles.”

“I have frozen pizza at the apartment,” Boyd said, pulling Isaac and Erica to their feet. 

Stiles waved briefly as the five of them left, feeling a bit of the inappropriate laughter he’d shoved down rising.

“Stiles,” Derek said, his voice still slow.

“If all you have to say is my name, this is going to be a short conversation,” Stiles replied.

“I don’t have an explanation,” Derek said, slumping back into the couch.

Stiles sighed and uncrossed his arms from his chest, where they’d gone without his permission. “Hey, there’s that profound logic I love so much.” He gave Derek a sideways look. “At least get off the couch so I can burn the cover. It might make me feel better.”

Derek sighed, but stood. “You’re not burning the couch cover,” he said, pulling the gauze off his side to reveal his mostly-healed side. “My shirt, maybe.”

Giving in a little, Stiles snorted. “Yeah, that fucker’s ruined. I think I need a break, Derek.”

What Stiles had said processed a few seconds after he finished saying it. 

Before Derek could respond, or do more than stare, Stiles continued, “Not from you. Well, yeah, from you, too, but from _everything_.”

“What does that mean,” Derek said, the inflection bled out of his voice. 

“It means I need a break,” Stiles repeated. “From this shitshow I’ve accepted as my life, from being completely unaffected by gunshots as long as they’re _just from humans_ , from worrying about whether or not I’m going to have time to finish my English paper when I’m trying not to get killed by pissed off faeries, all of it.”

“What does that mean,” Derek repeated.

“I need a break from Beacon Hills, Derek,” Stiles said. “No one’s life should be this ridiculous unless they choose it to be. Superheroes, sure, their lives can be this ridiculous. Navy SEALS. Not high school seniors.”

“Is this because you blame the pack for your father’s death?” Derek asked, still standing next to the couch in his ripped, bloody T-shirt. Stiles was struggling not to find it hilarious.

“Sure, a little,” Stiles said. “I blame myself a hell of a lot more than I blame you, though, and I blame Beacon Hills more than I blame anything else.” The little piece of Stiles that just thought _fuck it_ was winning, and Stiles didn’t see why he shouldn’t let it. “Right now, I find you standing there, all bloody and still healing from being shot, more hilarious than anything else. My mind is wondering why the hell you haven’t changed your shirt yet, not panicking about my boyfriend getting shot.” Stiles tapped the side of his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how that should work. And maybe ‘normal’ has become about as reasonable as expecting Santa to bring me a pony for Christmas, but somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting it to be normal, and I think that’s the problem.”

Derek just continued to stand there, staring at Stiles and not saying anything. 

“I miss normal, Derek.” Stiles shrugged. “I don’t let myself think it, really, not anymore, but I do. I stopped wanting it because some part of me decided it was dead and gone. It’s not, though. Normal still exists out there, in places where there aren’t supernatural creatures trying to kill us every other week and every corner and alley and building don’t remind me that I’m an orphan.”

“Running away never solves anything,” Derek said, breaking his silence. “I’ve tried.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “I don’t expect it to solve anything. No matter where I go, my parents are still dead, I’ve still killed things and read up on how to stitch claw wounds shut, and I’ve still lived through about a thousand things that should’ve killed me. I’m still alive because I’ve adjusted my concept of normal, but I really don’t want to anymore. I kind of want normal back.”

“What would you do with it?” Derek asked.

Stiles paused. He hadn’t expected Derek to do anything but stand there, or argue. “Graduate from high school. Go to college. Maybe join a few stupid college organizations. Have hobbies.” Stiles stopped, then said, softly, “Remember how to be afraid, not just resigned. Maybe actually bake something, without it getting burned because I couldn’t relax long enough to remember on time.” Stiles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “And I know I could try to do some of those things here. I know that.”

“You just don’t want to,” Derek finished.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “I just don’t want to.”

“I know how that feels,” Derek said. “To just stop caring. To try to pretend that all the bad things happened to someone else. I also know it doesn’t work.”

“That’s the problem,” Stiles said. “I don’t care if it works or not. I don’t care if it’s the dumbest thing I ever do. I’m just too tired to care. And not like a sleep-for-a-year kind of tired. I could fix that. I could go on vacation, or just hole up somewhere for a while. It’s not that. I’m the kind of tired where I care more about the fact that you didn’t want me to know you’d been shot than I care that you’ve actually been shot.”

Derek shrugged. “I heal.”

“Yeah, not the point,” Stiles said. “It still hurts. I love you; I should care whether or not you’re hurt. Instead, I just ask myself whether you’ll live, and decide whether or not to be worried from there.” He laughed. “Even then, if there’s something else happening, I move on to that. Because if I don’t, someone could be killed, or the town could be destroyed, or some crazy spell could destroy the planet. I have sincerely fucked up priorities, Derek. I’m eighteen. My biggest worries should be which party will be the best, where I’m going to get alcohol, and getting laid.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, cutting him off. “None of this is news. None of these things have been enough to scare you off. They’re not the point.”

“Then what is?” Stiles asked. 

“You’ve kept with us because none of these things are more important than the people you care about,” Derek said. “It’s not that you don’t care. Sometimes you care too much.”

Stiles looked at Derek for a few moments before the laughter bubbled out. “God, Derek. You just told me that I shouldn’t care about people being hurt, so long as everyone lives, did you know that? That’s so beyond normal I can’t even measure it.” Stiles kept laughing, crumpling until he was laughing from a heap on the floor. “And when someone does die, it’s okay to care, just not too much.”

“That’s not what I said,” Derek said, walking toward where Stiles was sitting. 

“No, but it’s what you meant,” Stiles said, “even if you don’t think it was. We live in such a continual state of life or death that properly mourning someone could be dangerous. You can’t even deny it without lying out your ass. If someone dies during a fight and you take the time to be affected, you could be the next one dead, or the person next to you. You can’t care. You have to learn not to care.” Stiles looked up to where Derek was now standing above him. “Well, Derek, I’m a fucking pro. I’ve learned not to care with the best of them.”

Derek held out a hand for him and Stiles took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “I don’t believe you,” Derek said, tugging Stiles into a hug. Stiles let himself sink into it. “And even if that’s how you feel right now, it won’t last. It’s a defense mechanism.”

Stiles ignored the way he knew the blood on Derek’s shirt was ruining his jacket. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I still need a break.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek said, pressing a kiss to the side of Stiles’ throat. “You just need time.”

Leaning a little, Stiles put his chin on Derek’s shoulder and relaxed into the embrace. “I think they might be the same.”

“A break is space,” Derek said. “Time is just time.”

“I need both, Derek,” Stiles said. “I don’t think that’s going to change.”

Pressing another kiss to Stiles’ throat, Derek asked, “Give it a week?”

Stiles breathed in the sharp smell of iron that was Derek’s blood and the slighter smell of pine that was just Derek. “Yeah, okay.”

 

A week didn’t help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot of folks were probably thinking something ... super fucking explosive happened in this chapter? That was the previous ones. (And then she brought out her psychology voice.) A lot of people are able to push themselves into things they don't want to do after something major happens, by internalizing (and sometimes externalizing) the results and consequences. The old adage, "the straw that broke the camel's back," is generally in reference to when something small happens, following the bigger bales of hay, that is just -- enough. And, in my mind, that's what would happen. Keeping Stiles out (or trying to) was a betrayal as much as anything else, and _that_ , in my mind, is the final straw.
> 
> I rarely explain what I do, but I did a stupid amount of Stiles psychoanalysis for this, and wanted to share a bit. (I work in the psychology field.)
> 
>  **Edit** : I totally jinxed myself. I just wrote four chapters and I'm starting a fifth. Welcome to writing fifty pages in a sitting? FML. (Oh, yes, a couple are longer than usual. Because my characters like to torture me.)


	13. In Which Stiles Deals With a Hangover And Very Bad News (Sort Of)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after I posted chapter twelve, I sat down and wrote 30,000 words? This is done through chapter nineteen, and I've started chapter twenty. It's probably only got another 10-15K after that, which I should finish this week/end. So! I'm going to be posting Wednesday/Sunday until the fic is done (or I get struck by lightning - don't worry, I'll provide for you in my will).
> 
> That said, this is the first post-flashback chapter. Your comments, kudos, and bookmarks seriously make my day.
> 
> Also of note: this is now in a "series." That series currently consists only of this story, but as I have about twelve spin-off one-shots (and not-one-shots) planned, it won't stay that way long. (One of them is already written, but the story needs to end first. No spoilers! Some bits in the end notes about some of the things I'm plotting (that aren't spoilers in and of themselves).
> 
> Finally: yes, Stiles' mouth did up the rating of this fic. More fun things will also require it, but Stiles' mouth set it off.

2028

Stiles was considerably more drunk when he finished his story than he’d been when he started. Probably a good example of cause and effect. Or equal and opposite reaction.

Something like that.

“The end,” he said dramatically, taking a half-bow from where he sat at the table. “Now you have the story of how Stiles knows so much shit. Well, at least part of it.”

Jess was the first to say something, “If the rest of it is that depressing, please don’t tell it. To anyone. Ever.”

Stiles knew he shouldn’t, but he snickered at that. “I mean, sure, fine, I can do that.” He finished off his drink, then leaned back in his chair. “Does the class have any follow-up questions? Be advised I may just tell you to piss off. Or throw up on you. The jury’s out.”

“Yeah, I have one,” Jason said, raising his hand. “So you just, what, never went back?”

“Something like that,” Stiles agreed.

“Why?” Jason asked. “It doesn’t really seem like you parted on bad terms with anyone.” He paused. “Except maybe your boyfriend. I feel like we missed a chunk of that.”

“You’ll forgive me for not elaborating on how the whole not understanding thing devolved into screaming fights. I think the bar likes its glassware,” Stiles said, toasting with his empty glass. “But, yeah, I suppose things were fine. Not actively hostile, anyway.”

“So why didn’t you go back?” Jason asked again.

Stiles shrugged. “I grew another life. It sucked less.” He paused. “Eventually it just seemed like I shouldn’t. I changed into someone else during college. Most people do; it’s part of growing up. I just changed into someone who never would’ve fit there.”

“And now?” Jess asked, spinning her empty glass with a finger. 

“Now? I get to deal with all the things I hated, without any of the things I loved.” He paused. “No offense.”

Jess snorted. “If you loved us already, I’d be concerned.”

Stiles glanced at the clock as the bartender sounded last call. “Jesus Christ, it’s late. Tomorrow’s going to suck.”

Jason patted him sharply on the shoulder. “I think it was going to suck either way. At least now it’ll suck with a hangover.”

“I fail to see how that’s better,” Stiles said, pushing himself out of his seat. “Fuck, I need to call a cab.”

“Yup,” Jess said. “I don’t think we ever said it would suck less. It’s just going to suck differently.”

“I think beer o’clock is hazardous to my health. When I’m sober, I’ll probably add you two to that category,” Stiles said, punching the cab information into an app on his phone.

“Cheers,” Jason said, finishing his drink. “Obviously we’ve done our jobs.”

As they all wandered out to the curb to wait for their cabs, Stiles took a moment to stare off into the invisible horizon. “Fuck,” he said. “I have a bad feeling about tomorrow.”

“I’ll bring Tylenol,” Jason said.

Stiles gave him a sideways look. “Not that kind of bad feeling.”

Jess patted Stiles on the back. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Famous last words,” Jason intoned, grinning. “Famous last words, Jess.”

 

When Stiles entered the office the next morning, about half the staff had already arrived, and Stiles himself was thirty minutes early.

As soon as he spotted him, Stiles asked Jason, “What’s going on?”

“Well,” Jason replied, looking up from where he was going through a folder of photos that Stiles didn’t recognize, “we did. Yesterday was a big deal. Everyone’s running around trying crazily to figure out what to do about it while we wait to hear back from the vampires.”

“Den,” Stiles corrected.

“Right, den, sorry,” Jason said, flipping the page before him over to reveal a new picture.

Stiles grabbed a swivel chair and pulled it up next to Jason so he could get a better look at the pictures. “What are these?” The pictures were of faces, but they didn’t have labels. Stiles could see the tell-tale physical signs of certain supernatural creatures, but others seemed human.

Jason rotated the photo so it was upright to Stiles, who was looking on from an angle. “These are all supernatural creatures and humans that we’ve found attached to supernatural incidents, but who we let go for being blameless. I was just wondering what would have happened if we’d asked for more information from any of them.” He looked up at Stiles. “I’ve been with the division for a long time. I’ve met most of these people. Why didn’t it occur to us earlier to try to set up an alliance?”

“Because the human reaction to something new and different is to fear it, and when humans fear something, they tend to kill it,” Stiles answered, shrugging. “The fact that you let them go at all is pretty impressive.”

“Way to be all philosophical about it,” Jason laughed. “The concept of ‘at least we didn’t kill them’ is a pretty grim on, isn’t it? Yes, we humans should be applauded for not simply killing everything we don’t understand.” He shrugged. “We don’t have high enough standards for ourselves. We hold the supernatural creatures we find to these unbelievable standards of peace and appropriate interaction, but then we just walk in and solve things however we want. This Counsel, they’re a supernatural governing body. What if all this time, we’ve been fighting things we really should have just passed on to the Emissaries?”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s changed, but back when I was in the pack, the Emissary did almost nothing to stop the fighting and death. All he really did was manage the human notice of things that got out of control. Even then, he really just paid people off and made his Senate liaison pull strings. He was a nice enough guy, he just didn’t have the power to control the entire Western Seaboard. When he realized the Beacon Hills pack was holding its own over a territory that was notoriously unbalanced, he came and gave us the responsibility for all of Northern California and Southern Oregon.” Stiles smiled. “He was really good at delegating.”

Jason laughed. “That makes me feel at least a little better.” He paused. “Do you think that’s what we’re going to get? An assigned ‘responsibility’?”

“If they accept us at all, yeah,” Stiles said. “We’re a resource to be used. We put ourselves out there for an alliance, and they’ll expect it to go both ways. If James isn’t expecting that, he should be.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s expecting it. James is good at planning for even the most ridiculous eventualities. A reasonable one should be easy enough,” Jess said from behind both Stiles and Jason. 

Jason turned to smile at her. Stiles fell out of his chair. 

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles breathed. “Do you do that a lot?”

“Someday, I’ll get Jason to react the way you did,” Jess said, smiling. “Until then, I’ll just keep trying.”

“Never gonna happen,” Jason said, turning back to the pictures. 

Jess helped Stiles back into his seat. “Looking at past cases?” she asked.

“Something like that,” Jason said.

“When do you think we’ll hear from the vampires?” Jess asked, nudging Stiles’ shoulder.

“Den,” Stiles and Jason corrected simultaneously, making the group laugh.

Both Stiles and Jason turned their chairs around so that the three formed a very strange triangle.

“I’m not sure,” Stiles answered. “Probably fairly quickly? In my experience, a den is structured a lot like a parliament. There’s the Den Leader and the Elders, and they make all of the decisions. An individual vampire can challenge a decision, but they’ll generally just get shot down. Most dens only have a few Elders, so the decisions come down in only hours. I’m guessing Angelica’s den is a bit bigger, what with being the Eastern Emissaries, but they still shouldn’t take more than a week or so to make the decision. For all that vampires are immortal, they don’t like to stretch things out.”

“You’d think the opposite,” Jess said. “Like, they’ve been alive so long that every decision needs to be made carefully, because they’ve seen what happens in various situations and with various consequences.”

“You would,” Stiles said. “It’s actually all of that history that helps them to reach their decisions so quickly. The Den Leader and the Elders have been around long enough that they can sift through their memories to circumstances that are similar, compare and contrast those with the present, and use past experience to make a decision with a pretty surefooted guess about the consequences.”

“That makes sense,” Jason said, shrugging. “We do the same thing, only on a smaller scale. From past experience, drinking tequila after vodka makes me want to die, so when I’m choosing drinks, I remember that. Being able to do that on a larger scale would be great, and a general result of gaining so much practical experience.”

“Exactly,” Stiles agreed. He looked around. “So what do we do while we’re waiting?”

Jess laughed. “I’m sure Suspicious Activity will have something for us to do as soon as James gets here.”

She was right. As soon as James arrived for the day, Aaron, his assistant, ran him three separate packets of information from Abigail Cooper’s desk, and James immediately began assigning people to each of them.

By eleven o’clock, Stiles was in a car on the way to the Washington Monument, where the water had turned purple overnight. The press was lauding it as a prank, but DCPD’s CSI team had tested the water positive for “unidentified chemicals.” 

By seven o’clock, Stiles was pretty sure he never wanted to have to deal with teenage witches ever again.

 

Stiles wanted to use his weekend to decompress. More accurately, his brain wanted a good few hours to just stare at a wall and stop spinning.

Unfortunately for Stiles’ brain, Jason showed up on his doorstep at noon on Saturday, holding up the Mission: Impossible trilogy and a six-pack of Blue Moon. 

“Blue Moon?” Stiles asked, stepping back and letting Jason in.

“That’s what you’re going to focus on?” Jason asked, settling the beer into Stiles fridge and making his way back into the living room. 

“I’d ask how you know where I live, only we’re both in the CIA, and that would be stupid. I’d ask why you’re here, but you brought beer and movies, so, again, stupid. That leaves: Blue Moon. Because, seriously, Blue Moon?” Stiles settled into one end of his couch, making no move to turn on his entertainment system.

Jason seemed to take that as an invitation to do it himself. “It’s cheap, and it’s ironic.”

A knock on the door kept Stiles from the disparaging remark he’d been going to make. Jason answered the door to Stiles’ feeble “Hey!” and let in Jess. 

“Did you get the Blue Moon?” Jess asked.

“Stiles doesn’t think it’s funny,” Jason said, putting on an exaggerated pout.

Jess raised an eyebrow at Stiles. “Seriously? It’s hysterical.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles intoned, rolling his eyes. 

Jess pulled chips and dip out of the cloth bag she was carrying and dropped them on Stiles’ coffee table. “Nourishment,” she said.

Jason took a seat at the other end of Stiles’ couch and Jess dropped herself between both of them.

“Movie time,” Jason said, having somehow set up the first Mission: Impossible and brought it to the menu screen.

“Okay, pause,” Stiles said, raising his hands. “Why are you here? It’s Saturday.”

“Thanks for that, Calendar Man,” Jess said, stretching an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “We decided you’re our friend, now.” She winked. “You looked like you needed some.”

“So you just decided?” Stiles asked.

“Yup,” Jess answered. “You haven’t gotten a personal message all week. That’s not normal.”

“We work for the CIA. Everyone I know is an agent or can’t be told anything at all about me,” Stiles said. “I’m pretty sure it’s normal.”

“Not even a little,” Jason said. “We’re fixing it. With force.”

Jess smiled. “Don’t fight it, Stiles. Just drink the Kool-Aid.”

“Fuck,” Stiles said, dropping his head back. “I’m going to need one of those beers.”

“On it!” Jason said, standing and walking back toward Stiles’ kitchen.

Stiles turned to Jess. “This is ridiculous. You’re like commandeering me.”

Shrugging, Jess said, “In other departments, you have months to slowly make friendships or acquaintanceships. In the MD, things happen so quickly that building them from the start is just better.” She brought her arm down and elbowed Stiles. “It’s okay. Jason commandeered me. It’s really not that awful to be friends with him.”

“I heard that,” Jason said, handing out the three topless beers he was carrying. “And she’s right. I’m awesome.”

“I don’t think that’s what I said,” Jess put in, waving her beer at Jason while he sat. “I said ‘not awful.’ Back me up here, Stiles.”

“You’re both insane,” Stiles said, but he was smiling. It had been a long time since he’d been close to anyone he wasn’t dating.

Maybe the Kool-Aid wouldn’t be so bad. Then again, Stiles was pretty sure that was the exact thought Jim Jones’ followers had, just before they died.

At least it would be an entertaining way to die.

 

Monday and Tuesday proceeded much like Friday had, with Abigail bringing new files from Suspicious Activity down to Aaron every morning, who then delivered them to James. Stiles didn’t know why Abigail didn’t deliver them directly, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

(Jason told him anyway. James had dated Abigail’s sister. Apparently the MD was the place where relationships went to die, if the fifteen or so others Jess piped in with were any indication.)

Stiles seemed to have been permanently partnered with Jason and Jess, with odd members of Jess’ team joining them when necessary. It wasn’t likely he’d be partnered with them forever -- and if it was, Stiles was sure he’d notice eventually -- but it was fun, and Stiles appreciated it.

He had an odd feeling that James was trying to loosen him up, but he wasn’t sure why that was odd or a bad thing, so he ignored the impulse.

Stiles also learned that not only did Jess and Jason’s names both start with “J,” they actually had completely identical initials: JFC. They’d had to bring out official IDs to get Stiles to believe them, but when he did, it was easily the best thing he’d heard in years. 

It was Wednesday when Angelica called the MD’s main line and asked for Stiles. 

He put the phone on speaker after telling Angelica he was doing so, and then he, James, Jess, and Jason stood around the receiver.

“Angelica,” Stiles said, “I’m with Jason Curtis and Jessica Courtney, the two agents who were with me last week. Our Director, James Hunter, is also here.”

“Thank you, Stiles,” Angelica said. “May I have your full name, for our dossier?”

“Sure,” Stiles said. “I wasn’t kidding when I said it was hard to pronounce, though. It’s Mieczyslaw Stilinski. I really prefer ‘Stiles’.”

“So noted. I’ve called to inform you that our Den Leader has accepted your terms and we shall be your allies for the foreseeable future, provided that you do not betray us, or overstep our authority over our territory.” Angelica’s voice was calm, but Stiles could hear the subtle change during her polite threat.

“Of course,” Stiles said. “Out of clarity, you should know that any specific deal you’d like to make should go between your Den Leader and Director Hunter.”

“I will tell her to do so,” Angelica said. “My assistant will collect your individual contact information after we are done speaking.”

“All right,” Stiles agreed.

“I have a second piece of news for you.” Angelica paused, as if to give Stiles a chance to speak. When he didn’t, she continued, “As the first act of our alliance, and as an act of good faith, we have secured five guest seats for you at this year’s Counsel. We sacrificed three of our own seats for these, so you will be attending under both your own names and the name of the Eastern Emissary. I will need to know which five of you will be attending, so that my Den Leader can submit your names alongside ours to the Central Emissary, who is acting as host to this year’s Counsel.”

“I can give you those names now,” James said. “This is Director Hunter speaking.”

“Of course,” Angelica replied. “Our only requirement is that Mr. Stilinski attend.”

If it hadn’t been utterly unprofessional, and the supernatural equivalent of exposing his jugular, Stiles would have groaned. Or cried. It would have been embarrassing.

“He was going to be one of my assignees, regardless,” James said. “The others will be myself, Mr. Curtis, Miss Courtney, and my assistant, Aaron Jacobson.”

“Please send secure dossiers for everyone to my assistant. She will give you the appropriate contact information,” Angelica said.

“I will connect her with Aaron,” James replied.

“The five of you will meet us at the private plane entrance to Dulles at ten o’clock the morning of April 13th. The Counsel is the 15th, but there are other events scheduled beforehand. My assistant will get you the complete schedule, as well.” Angelica cleared her throat. “I believe that is all I have for you.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said. “You went a long way for us and we appreciate it.”

“We are committed to a positive alliance, Stiles,” Angelica said, a tone of amusement entering her voice as she said Stiles’ name.

“So are we,” Stiles mirrored. “If you need anything from us before we’re finished writing the alliance, please don’t hesitate to let us know. We’ll do what we can.”

“That is my hope,” Angelica answered. “I will now put Margaret Fisher, my assistant, on the phone. Please have a pleasant day.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said.

“I am to liaise with you?” another female voice -- Margaret -- said.

“Yes,” James said. “Here is Aaron Jacobson, my assistant. He’ll get you the information you need, and get your information for us in turn.”

“Absolutely,” Margaret said as Aaron stepped up to the phone with his tablet.

Stiles stepped away from the phone as Aaron introduced himself, then followed James to his office, where he was gesturing for Stiles, Jason, and Jess to follow.

Once they were inside, James said, “I expect the three of you to learn everything you possibly can about the information that the den provides us. Do your own research. I want to know the Counsel inside and out.”

“On it,” Jason said. “We won’t disappoint.”

“Good,” James said. “I will do the same while I work with the Den Leader.” He paused. “Until then, Abigail has told me that there are some trees dropping 24 karat gold walnuts.”

“On that too,” Jason replied.

As they walked out of James’ office and toward Abigail’s desk, Stiles couldn’t help letting out a short, “Fuck.”

Jess patted him on the shoulder. “How bad can it be?”

Stiles stared at her. “Just. _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that Incredibly Obvious plot twist! If you were shocked, well, apparently I'm subtle? (I'm not subtle, stop giving me credit for that.) If you don't like Jess and Jason by the end of this story, I will be very, very sad. (I ship it, not gonna lie. They don't, though, the assholes. Well, one of them does.)
> 
> So, as promised, some of the fic/lets that will show up at some point after this story is done:  
> -some bits of Derek's POV (because he has one! eventually! but not in this fic) during Certain Scenes (that haven't happened yet)  
> -requisite porn (because unfortunately there won't be any in this fic - it just doesn't fit with the story and I'm not a fan of throwing porn around just because yay porn - that's what PWP ficlets are for)  
> -the story of how they got together the first time (which would also be a monster, and will only be touched if I get enough requests to do so, and my brain feels like it, and after I've sated my need to write a million ficlets for this and Chicago Med)  
> -spoiler  
> -spoiler for chapter, um, spoiler  
> -more hilarious spoiler  
> -some bromance  
> -an entire story of Jess, Jason, and Stiles texting one another  
> -spoiler  
> -Stiles being spoiler-spoiler  
> -a love triangle that probably only I care about (you guess it, it's dedicated to you)  
> -a slightly different love triangle with more judgment and also the potential for a threesome (again, you guess it, it's dedicated to you) (also, I don't write threesomes, I'm sorry, but once this story is done, I invite you to write it yourself)  
> -very specific spoilery porn which may or may not involve Liam, tangentially  
> -Jess and Jason have terrible timing (alternately: Jess and Jason have fabulous timing)
> 
> Also, it says this on my profile, and I'll say it again in the last chapter, but:  
> This work includes blanket permission to reuse plot points, write prequels, sequels, utilize my original characters, etc. So long as I and the original work/series are credited, **and you let me know it's going to happen** , have at it. My email is on my profile. I may or may not validate the story written as part of the canon. If you _do not_ credit me and I find out about it, I will be very grumpy and likely file for removal from the Archive.
> 
> And since people are doing this now, here's [my Tumblr](http://approximatelytrue.tumblr.com), where I occasionally do things and participate way to much in fandom. Also: go check out [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page), add some stuff, and stare at our new main page. :)


	14. In Which A Lot of Texting Happens and They Fly to Illinois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unless something insane happens: I _will_ be posting every Sunday and Wednesday until this story is up. How do I know that? I finished writing it. As the little chapter counter thing says, there will be 21 chapters (and the last few are a bit longer than the rest, sorry not sorry). This thing clocked in at around ~78,000 words, which makes it the longest thing I've ever finished.
> 
> I blame you guys. ;) Thanks for leaving such amazing comments, I appreciate all of you! If you've been subscribing to this and probably want more after it's done, definitely subscribe to the series, since a side-story already exists. (And there will probably more before this is finished, so you'll get some more story on a regular basis for a while longer.)

The den got the dossier on their own Counsel attendees to the MD within the next 24 hours and Stiles, Jason, and Jess began pouring over it immediately.

At the office, and at home.

Stiles’ apartment had become communal space without his say-so, though he was having a hard time arguing. It felt good to have people showing up whenever they felt like it again. 

They spent a lot of time looking at the names on the dossier for the den, making sure they would know everyone by glance and have appropriate reference for them.

They spent an equal amount of time simply laying around and watching movies, playing games, or just talking. Stiles remembered what it was like to have good friends.

It was nice.

 

Their day jobs remained the same, regardless of the studying. Abigail would find suspicious activity, they would take care of it. It was almost like riding a bike: what, a new weird-ass thing to deal with? Bring on the research and lack of self-preservation skills.

Jason and Jess only became more insane, over time. Stiles added his own crazy to the mix, and they were the most effective team the MD had ever sent out. They were also the least professional.

 **Jason Curtis (15:14, 1 April 2028)**  
Activity on the Western Bank, near the Willow tree.

 **Jessica Courtney (15:17, 1 April 2028)**  
Which fucking Willow tree there are like twelve Jay

 **Jason Curtis (15:18, 1 April 2028)**  
The really big one.

 **Jessica Courtney (15:19, 1 April 2028)**  
Theyre all big this forest is 100 yrs old

 **Jason Curtis (15:19, 1 April 2028)**  
Fucking figure it out, Jess, before I get eaten!

 **Outgoing (15:21, 1 April 2028)**  
It’s the one with a face on the trunk, like in GoT.

 **Jessica Courtney (15:22, 1 April 2028)**  
Which episode

 **James Hunter (15:22, 1 April 2028)**  
Stop using the tactical line to be idiots and do your fucking jobs.

 **Jessica Courtney (15:31, 1 April 2028)**  
Seriously tho which episode

 **Outgoing (15:31, 1 April 2028)**  
Jess, I see you on the other side of that tree, you’ve already found us, stop fucking with James before he remote detonates you or something.

 **Jessica Courtney (15:32, 1 April 2028)**  
We dont have that tech

 **James Hunter (15:33, 1 April 2028)**  
I will fucking invent it, Jess. Go figure out why the dryads are eating people. 

**Jessica Courtney (15:34, 1 April 2028)**  
Preferably wo getting eaten right

 **Jessica Courtney (15:47, 1 April 2028)**  
Right?

 **Jason Curtis (15:48, 1 April 2028)**  
If you don’t put that damn phone away, I will be the one eating you, now go help Stiles try to communicate with crazy things.

 **Outgoing (16:22, 1 April 2028)**  
The dryads have Dutch Elm disease. Apparently it works like rabies. I don’t know. We’ve trapped them, someone go find a druid.

 **Jessica Courtney (16:23, 1 April 2028)**  
I almost got eaten btw I hope you feel bad about ignoring me

 **James Hunter (16:24, 1 April 2028)**  
We’ve called the closest druid we know. And not even a little bit.

 **Jason Curtis (16:25, 1 April 2028)**  
Welcome to our level of maturity, James. It’s fun down here.

 **James Hunter (16:27, 1 April 2028)**  
You’re all going to the professionalism seminar on Saturday. It’s eight hours long. Assistant Director Baldwin is running it.

 **Jessica Courtney (16:28, 1 April 2028)**  
Worth it

 

By the time April twelfth rolled around, Stiles had made a place for himself within the MD and had almost forgotten why going to the Counsel was anything less than exciting.

Packing his suitcase reminded him.

Stiles had the packing list Aaron had handed him when he’d left the MD that evening, but he’d yet to do anything but put his nicest suit into a dry cleaning bag to keep it from wrinkling in his garment bag. Apparently he was meant to look professional the whole time, but the Thursday night cocktail party was the most important. Everything else could be regular business wear. Aaron had also listed three casual outfits and two sets of sleepwear. Stiles wasn’t sure who had made those calls, but if he had to bet, he’d put money on Jess. 

Only Jess would want to go out after a day of supernatural politics.

Stiles picked up his cell and sent off a text to the three-person group stream he, Jess, and Jason had started the day after the Mission: Impossible commandeering. 

**Outgoing (19:42, 12 April 2028)**  
Do you think James would believe me if I called in sick tomorrow?

 **Jessica Courtney (19:50, 12 April 2028)**  
0%

 **Jason Curtis (19:52, 12 April 2028)**  
Even if you WERE sick, he’d talk you out of it.

 **Jessica Courtney (19:52, 12 April 2028)**  
Bummer bro

Stiles stared at his closet again. 

**Outgoing (19:53, 12 April 2028)**  
What if I just burn my wardrobe and tell him I have to attend in jeans and old graphic Ts from high school?

 **Jason Curtis (19:54, 12 April 2028)**  
James is a millionaire trust fund kid, he’d just buy you a new one.

 **Outgoing (19:54, 12 April 2028)**  
Seriously?

 **Jessica Courtney (19:55, 12 April 2028)**  
More money than god

Stiles picked three pairs of slacks, four shirts, and two blazers out of his closet, moving to hook them into his garment bag.

 **Outgoing (19:59, 12 April 2028)**  
Would it be worth breaking my leg?

 **Jason Curtis (20:01, 12 April 2028)**  
Nope. I’m pretty sure he’d find a doctor or surgeon to stick on the plane. Or make you become a vampire.

 **Outgoing (20:02, 12 April 2028)**  
They don’t really do that on demand, you know.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:03, 12 April 2028)**  
James can be very personable

 **Jessica Courtney (20:03, 12 April 2028)**  
*persistent

 **Jessica Courtney (20:03, 12 April 2028)**  
*persuasive fucking autocorrect

 **Jason Curtis (20:04, 12 April 2028)**  
Psychic autocorrect. Those were all correct.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:05, 12 April 2028)**  
Cool but yeah hed probably go with vampire itd probably be useful

 **Jason Curtis (20:05, 12 April 2028)**  
Punctuation, Jess. We’ve talked about this.

 **Outgoing (20:06, 12 April 2028)**  
I’m not going to be a vampire.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:07, 12 April 2028)**  
Then dont break anything. Look a period

 **Jason Curtis (20:08, 12 April 2028)**  
Someday I will shoot you in the back and you will never know it was me.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:09, 12 April 2028)**  
Every time I get shot in the back now Im going to assume it was you you know that right

 **Jason Curtis (20:10, 12 April 2028)**  
I’m counting on it.

Grabbing his toiletry kit out of the bathroom, Stiles walked back to his bag and unzipped the side pocket meant specifically for toiletries. The kit never actually fit, so Stiles dumped it out on the bed to pick out what he would actually need, and what was getting abandoned in the bathroom.

 **Outgoing (20:15, 12 April 2028)**  
I think we’ve gone off the point. I don’t want to go to the Counsel. It’s going to be like the worst seeing-the-ex scenes from every movie you’ve ever watched, all put together.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:16, 12 April 2028)**  
Yeah but itll be hilarious

 **Jason Curtis (20:17, 12 April 2028)**  
You know, if you just use Intuitive Talk-to-Text it’ll put the punctuation in for you, right?

 **Jessica Courtney (20:17, 12 April 2028)**  
Im oldschool

 **Jason Curtis (20:18, 12 April 2028)**  
Fuck off and die.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:19, 12 April 2028)**  
That escalated quickly

 **Outgoing (20:20, 12 April 2028)**  
No, that’s been coming for as long as I’ve known you.

 **Outgoing (20:20, 12 April 2028)**  
The “fuck” part, anyway.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:22, 12 April 2028)**  
And you wonder why we feel no sympathy for you and your weird werewolf problems

 **Jessica Courtney (20:29, 12 April 2028)**  
I think you broke Jay

 **Outgoing (20:29, 12 April 2028)**  
He’ll be back when he’s done with his existential crisis.

 **Jason Curtis (20:30, 12 April 2028)**  
I got up to get a beer and came back to this BS. 

**Jessica Courtney (20:31, 12 April 2028)**  
Youre drinking wo me

 **Jason Curtis (20:31, 12 April 2028)**  
Yup.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:32, 12 April 2028)**  
Bitch

 **Outgoing (20:33, 12 April 2028)**  
What am I going to do?

 **Jason Curtis (20:34, 12 April 2028)**  
Continue to age, sometimes drink too much, and hang out with us enough to get you institutionalized.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:34, 12 April 2028)**  
Keep living hang with us pout whenever anyone mentions werewolves

 **Jessica Courtney (20:35, 12 April 2028)**  
Ha jinx

 **Jason Curtis (20:36, 12 April 2028)**  
God we’re finally merging into one human. Soon I’ll forget what apostrophes do. Kill me now.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:37, 12 April 2028)**  
Hey youre not killing me now this is progress

 **Jason Curtis (20:38, 12 April 2028)**  
No, I was thinking murder-suicide, actually. 

**Outgoing (20:39, 12 April 2028)**  
Yeah, you two will go down in a mutual blaze of glory someday. My heart truly believes that.

 **Outgoing (20:40, 12 April 2028)**  
But can we seriously talk about the Counsel, I think I’m going to have a panic attack, and I forgot how to handle those a decade ago.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:40, 12 April 2028)**  
Aw thanks

 **Jessica Courtney (20:41, 12 April 2028)**  
Blaze of glory obvs oops sorry

 **Jason Curtis (20:42, 12 April 2028)**  
What do you think will actually happen?

Stiles shoved his much-smaller hygiene kit into his bag, then zipped that compartment shut. He grabbed a couple pairs of dress shoes and neatly tucked them into the bottom space reserved for shoes, then went back to his closet for his casual attire.

He still chose jeans, graphic Ts, and sweaters when he was casual. With the Counsel looming, Stiles was considering whether or not making James buy him a new casual wardrobe really might be a good idea. He grabbed two T-shirts at random, the only two non-plaid long-sleeved shirts he owned, and two pairs of jeans. These got no attention, and were just dumped into the miscellaneous space of his garment bag.

If he didn’t think about them, they didn’t exist. It’d been a good policy for more than twelve years, if Stiles ignored how impressively it had blown up in his face. When he picked his cell back up, he had a few messages waiting for him.

 **Jason Curtis (20:43, 12 April 2028)**  
I mean, sure, maybe it’ll be all those awkward rom-com ex scenes, but so what?

 **Jason Curtis (20:45, 12 April 2028)**  
From what you’ve said, none of these people are assholes or homicidal maniacs (at least I fucking hope not). Maybe it’ll suck, but we’re not there to rekindle old relationships.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:46, 12 April 2028)**  
Thats a shitty way to say it but Jason has a point I dont think anyone will make the past the point of the Counsel and Im pretty sure were all too old to do the high school stupid thing

 **Jason Curtis (20:47, 12 April 2028)**  
That’s not what I was saying. High school stupid still exists. The point remains that we, as the CIA representatives, are there to make connections and be as professional as possible so that we can be the human representatives to this supernatural Counsel.

 **Jessica Courtney (20:48, 12 April 2028)**  
Yeah that even the professional part

 **Jessica Courtney (20:56, 12 April 2028)**  
Stiles?

 **Outgoing (20:58, 12 April 2028)**  
I know I should go, be professional, network, spy, and bring back information. That’s the job. There’s just a really good chance that I’m going to know 20% of the people there. And one of those people will be my ex-boyfriend.

 **Jessica Courtney (21:01, 12 April 2028)**  
I ran into an ex on a mission once it wasnt as bad as it seemed

 **Jason Curtis (21:02, 12 April 2028)**  
What Jess is saying is that maybe it’ll be awkward, but you’re both adults. You’ve moved on, he’s moved on, maybe the connection will even be helpful.

Stiles stared at his phone for a moment. It would be a lie to say that he had “moved on.” Dated other people, yes. Forgotten how much he had loved Derek? No. It was probably even a lie to say that he had stopped loving Derek. He’d just pushed the emotion as far down as he could, with everything else about Beacon Hills, and “moved on” by filling his life with completely different things. 

It made sense that if he’d uncovered enough of the supernatural, the rest would be free soon, too. Letting his friends think that he’d “moved on” would be a lie. With the Counsel coming, a possibly dangerous lie.

 **Outgoing (21:05, 12 April 2028)**  
Before we go to the Counsel and something gets out of hand, you should probably know that I’ve never actually moved on. Unless dating other people and pretending that particular relationship never existed is moving on.

 **Jessica Courtney (21:07, 12 April 2028)**  
Not for any well adjusted person no

 **Jessica Courtney (21:07, 12 April 2028)**  
Not that were the poster children for well adjusted

 **Jason Curtis (21:09, 12 April 2028)**  
Is it “not moved on” as in you just haven’t processed it, or “not moved on” as in you’re still in love with him.

 **Jessica Courtney (21:10, 12 April 2028)**  
You dont really avoid people youre still in love with Jay

 **Jason Curtis (21:11, 12 April 2028)**  
Maybe in fantasy-land you don’t. Falling out of love is hard, even when things end badly.

 **Outgoing (21:12, 12 April 2028)**  
I think it’s “not moved on” as in never managed to stop loving him enough to fall in love with anyone else. Which is just depressing as fuck, in retrospect.

 **Jessica Courtney (21:14, 12 April 2028)**  
Thats depressing in any spect

 **Jason Curtis (21:14, 12 April 2028)**  
I’ll just let that one go, Jess. 

**Jason Curtis (21:16, 12 April 2028)**  
That you’re still in love with him isn’t really a surprise, Stiles. You never had any closure, you just ran away. No offense. What I would say is just that it’s been a long time, and the person you’re in love with has had 12 years to grow and change. So have you. It’s easy to stay in love with a memory.

 **Jessica Courtney (21:17, 12 April 2028)**  
Plus well be there with you we can probably help if anything ridiculous happens

 **Outgoing (21:17, 12 April 2028)**  
Wow, Jess, without punctuation that text was ridiculous.

 **Jason Curtis (21:18, 12 April 2028)**  
I’ve been telling her that for years.

 **Jessica Courtney (21:18, 12 April 2028)**  
Fuck both of you see if I do anything else supportive Stiles stop avoiding

 **Outgoing (21:19, 12 April 2028)**  
Harsh. I’m not avoiding, I’m thinking. And packing. 

**Jessica Courtney (21:20, 12 April 2028)**  
Be sure to remember condoms you never know when youll need condoms

 **Jason Curtis (21:21, 12 April 2028)**  
We are too old not to know when we’re going to need condoms.

 **Outgoing (21:21, 12 April 2028)**  
Speak for yourself, I’m only 29.

 **Jessica Courtney (21:22, 12 April 2028)**  
Aww I forgot youre the baby

 **Jason Curtis (21:23, 12 April 2028)**  
It explains so much. Like this entire conversation. You’re an adult, Stiles. Your shit will work out, and if it blows up in all our faces, as least we went down together. 

**Jessica Courtney (21:23, 12 April 2028)**  
!!! what he said

 **Jason Curtis (21:24, 12 April 2028)**  
Now if study hall gossip romance time is over, I have a beer to finish and a hockey game in my recorder.

 **Outgoing (21:25, 12 April 2028)**  
I still have no idea what I’m going to do, but at least I know I can drag you down with me, so thanks.

 **Jason Curtis (21:26, 12 April 2028)**  
Any time.

 **Jessica Courtney (21:27, 12 April 2028)**  
Bruins im on my way over

 **Jason Curtis (21:28, 12 April 2028)**  
Now see what you’ve done?

After his phone remained silent for a few minutes, Stiles clicked off his screen and dropped it on his bedside table. He grabbed the last of the things he needed for the weekend -- sleep wear, chargers, some miscellaneous files and flash drives -- and tucked them into his garment bag, then zipped it shut. The garment bag had been an impulse purchase after returning from a trip where everything had been wrinkled and almost unwearable. It was fancy and expensive and Stiles loved the crap out of it.

And really, maybe if he packed well enough, he could stave off the mess the Counsel was going to be. At least a little.

 

Stiles was at Dulles fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, but the Den Leader and den members who were attending the Counsel were already there, as well as James. The Den Leader -- a rather plain-looking vampire named Theo Rousseau -- was showing a few documents to James while the rest of the den members sat under the shade of the plane’s wing and chatted. 

When Stiles walked up, a vampire Stiles recognized as Hannah Thompson, the den’s scribe, grabbed his garment bag and went to stow it. Stiles hung onto his his messenger bag and approached Angelica where she was talking to a vampire named Julius Verona. Angelica greeted him politely,

“Stiles. Did you arrive here all right?”

“Yeah, thanks for asking. Same for you guys?” he asked.

Angelica smiled. “Oh, yes. This airport has housed our planes for a very long time.”

Stiles nodded. “Fair enough. What time are we taking off?”

“Eleven,” Angelica answered. “We’ll begin the taxi at fifteen of.” She looked around. “Where are your fellows?”

When Stiles turned around to look, Aaron came around the corner with a hard-shelled suitcase and waved. Stiles waved back. “I’ve seen James and Aaron’s there, so I guess we’re just waiting for Jason and Jess. They’ll probably arrive together.”

Angelica raised an eyebrow. “Are they partnered, then?”

“No,” Stiles said, laughing a little. “At least, I don’t think so. If they are, it’s an incredibly well-kept secret.”

“Why the laughter?” Angelica asked.

“Because I’ve been wondering the same thing since I met them. If they’re secretly dating, I mean. I haven’t seen them do anything romantic, but they have enough electricity between them to knock this plane out of the sky,” Stiles answered.

“Clever metaphor,” Angelica said, smiling at him. “I have not met such a clever human in a long time.”

“Thanks?” Stiles said while he shrugged. “I think I’ve just lost the ability to take anything seriously unless I’m actively fearing for my life.”

“You do not fear for your life, surrounded by vampires?”

“Not really,” Stiles answered. “If you were planning on killing us all, this would be a pretty good place, so it’s not that. I just don’t feel that you’ll do us any wrong.”

“Ah,” Angelica breathed, “I see.”

Stiles grinned. “Well, if you do, keep it to yourself, please. It wouldn’t do to insult one of your denmates by making them think they aren’t threatening.”

“Very clever again,” Angelica said. “I believe we will get along nicely, Stiles.”

“I hope so,” Stiles said. He turned around when he heard a recognizable voice saying something just outside understanding.

“I believe Mr. Curtis and Miss Courtney have arrived,” Angelica said. “That would put us at full count. I should tell Theo.” She nodded politely and walked toward where James and the Den Leader were still talking.

“Hey,” Jason said as he and Jess arrived. He paused while the scribe took their bags as they’d taken Stiles’ and probably Aaron’s, though Stiles hadn’t been paying attention. “How’s your head?”

“Head?” Stiles asked, then he got it. Jason was using code, for whatever reason. It was an incredibly obvious one, so Stiles guessed it was just for Stiles’ privacy. “Nevermind,” he said, before Jason could answer. “It’s fine. Still stings a bit, but the worst is over.”

Jess grinned and put her hand on his arm. “Good. Let us know if you need any Advil.”

“Or even Vicodin,” Jason added, his eyes wrinkling where he was obviously trying not to laugh.

“Oh, I will,” Stiles said. He turned when he heard James call for him and saw James gesturing them onto the stairs that led up to the plane. “Here goes nothing.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Jess whispered, punching Stiles in the shoulder.

Stiles shrugged. “It feels fine.”

“Not what I meant,” Jess whispered again, following Stiles and Jason to the stairs. 

“I was answering what you meant, I promise,” Stiles whispered back, winking. “Now we can take a nice flight to Chicago, where dreams go to die.”

As they boarded the plane, James said, from somewhere in front of them, “I was raised in Chicago, Stilinski.”

“And then are reborn into beautiful butterflies,” Stiles said, coughing. “That’s how that sentence was meant to end.”

James gave him an eyebrow from where he was sitting across from the Den Leader, a pile of papers -- dossiers? -- laid out in front of them. “Of course it was.”

Stiles grinned as he settled into a seat and Jess and Jason settled in across from him. “Definitely looking up,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. That was a lot of texting. But can you imagine the 2K kids _not_ using text as their main form of communication? I can't. I mean, maybe in 2028 we'll just beam conversations into one another's heads (and then be turned into Cybermen), but whatever.
> 
> Also, because I'm done writing the story and amused, I've set myself up a little game! I love writing drabbles/shortfic, and I'm totally willing to do so for this fic, so trivia questions! Whoever answers correctly first gets their choice of drabble topic (specifically for this story, though I could be persuaded otherwise). Minimum of 300 words. Please note: the questions are insane and mostly a guessing game. (You can still win drabbles in the last chapter by guessing who the love triangles are. That'll get easier in chapter 15.)
> 
> So, question of the chapter: in which fandom did my fannish heart begin? You are allowed whatever resources at your disposal, up to and including asking mutual online friends (if we have any). Helpful hint: yes, there is fic on this profile from that fandom. No, it's not from when I first started writing it. Second helpful hint: there is actually a page on the Internet where I answer this question in great detail.
> 
> And yes, this is largely because I've run out of ways to gush about chapters, because when I know how something's going to end, I kind of stop doing that? Anyway, I live and breathe on comments, you can totally guess or not, and thank you for reading! For those extremely bored, my [Tumblr](http://approximatelytrue.tumblr.com).


	15. In Which Stiles Arrives at the Counsel and Would Rather Be Literally Anywhere Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's another chapter! I enjoyed this one, quite a bit. I wanted to get to a certain point before I ended it, so it's a bit longer than usual. (Who'm I kidding: all the upcoming chapters are a little longer than the previous have been.)
> 
> Also, I was considering switching to T/Th/Su as a posting schedule, because it's done? Let me know if that sounds good, or too frequently, considering the word count. (Right now, the last chapter stands to be posted 7/5/17, with a sidestory posted the same day.)
> 
> Also also, So Begins the Awkward. (If I didn't have a chapter title theme, and at least the tiniest bit of pride in my work, that would've been the chapter title. Just saying.)

They landed at a private air strip North of Chicago proper around two o’clock, accounting for the time change. Three SUVs were waiting for them at the airport, and men in sunglasses loaded all of their luggage into the SUVs’ trunks. Angelica directed people to their appropriate vehicle like someone might conduct an orchestra. 

Stiles, Jess, and Jason found themselves in the back row of one of the SUVs, sitting behind Aaron, and Hannah, and with James in the front passenger seat while Angelica drove. Angelica was giving them a protocol rundown before they reached the Counsel. Since they’d all read and memorized the protocol backward and forward, Stiles assumed she was nervous.

Maybe not for herself, but for her den if the stupid humans screwed something up.

She wasn’t exactly wrong to worry. 

Angelica got them their keys and led them to their hotel rooms, explaining that the Eastern Emissaries were in the rooms on the rest of their hall, and that all of the rooms were soundproof for privacy, as most supernatural beings had above-average hearing abilities, but not all. James and Aaron were shuffled into a room, Jason and Stiles the next, and Jess into a single across from them. Angelica handed them all their official invitations to the cocktail party and left them with strict instructions to meet her outside their rooms fifteen of seven so she could lead them to the party.

Stiles fought the urge to salute successfully, but Jess lost the battle. James glared her into her room, but Stiles caught Angelica smile before she walked away to settle into her own room.

He and Jason went into their room to find their bags already on their beds; apparently Stiles was by the door.

“Well, this is cozy,” Jason said, making a circuit of the room. “Nice, for the pair of us humans.”

“They’re trying to show good will, remember?” Stiles asked, unzipping his garment bag and pulling out the clothes that needed to hang before they wrinkled. The room’s closet was decently-sized and had nice wooden hangers, all the better not to snag on expensive linen. He left his casual items in the bag, but folded them more nicely. He pulled out the rest of his various odds and ends, as well as his toiletry kit, and then shoved the bag under his bed.

“Do this often?” Jason asked. Stiles looked over to see that Jason was still in the process of putting his nice clothes on hangers. 

Stiles shrugged. “Not really. I just analyze problems quickly.”

“Says one of the youngest Senior Analysts in the history of the Agency. Yeah, you probably do,” Jason said, grinning. 

Their door opened without a knock and Jess came in, collapsing on Stiles’ cleared-off bed. “Don’t worry, my nice crap is all hung up. We’ve got a few hours before the party. Want to go exploring?”

“Not even a little,” Stiles answered, sitting down next to her.

Jason snorted. Jess scowled at him.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because I have no intention of running into anyone I don’t want to talk to before I absolutely have to,” Stiles said, shrugging. “You guys go, though.”

“Ugh,” Jess groaned. “You know we’re not leaving without you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jason said, shrugging into a fairly casual sports coat. “I’m checking out the bar.”

“Ooh,” Jess said, leaning toward him. “Alcohol. Alcohol would make everything better right now.” She glanced at Stiles. “Especially for you, kid.”

“Then bring me some?” Stiles asked, letting himself fall onto his back. “Otherwise, I’m just going to set an alarm and nap until I have to get ready. It’s a supernatural cocktail party. There’s no way it’s going to end at a decent hour.”

Jess looked at Jason, then shrugged. “We’ll survive.”

“And we’re not bringing your chicken ass a drink. You want something, you brave the mini-fridge or meet us downstairs,” Jason added.

“Nap it is,” Stiles said, kicking his shoes off over the side of the bed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and continued, “I’m jumping in the shower at six, if that’s cool.”

“Yeah, I’ll hop in at five-thirty,” Jason replied.

“Cool,” Stiles said, programming the alarm on his phone.

“Lame!” Jess called as she and Jason left the room. 

Rolling over and dropping his phone on the bedside table, Stiles shrugged. His last thought before falling to sleep was a prayer to no one that he could make it through to the next day without wanting to commit ritual suicide.

 

When Stiles woke up, it wasn’t to his alarm. It was to a feeling growing in the pit of his stomach like he’d swallowed a tampon and it was expanding. He could hear Jason in the shower and the clock on his phone read five-forty-three, so he hadn’t woken significantly too early.

Stiles didn’t even try to shake the feeling in his stomach. He collected his three-piece suit and shoes for the party, then laid them out to see if he could find any wrinkles. The suit was a gray linen-wool blend and perfectly tailored. It had been another impulse buy, after a girl had dumped him because he was too “frumpy” in graduate school. 

He sure as hell didn’t look frumpy in this suit. Apparently, the clean-cut gray suit was timeless, since he hadn’t had an remarks about it being outdated, and always got compliments for how well it fit him. He got a lot of those compliments. 

Stiles pulled out his leather polish and shined his shoes, then shook the last few wrinkles out of the plain white shirt he’d brought with him. He had a plain white T-shirt as an undershirt, as well, and his tie was the same gray as his suit, except for the darker gray lines that formed a Celtic pattern on it.

Jason stepped out of the bathroom a little after six with an apologetic look on his face, but wearing a suit that make him look like a supermodel.

Stiles didn’t get _that_ many compliments.

“You look fantastic,” Stiles said, giving Jason an obvious once-over. 

Jason grinned. “Ah, yes. My gay demographic. I’m going to have to politely inform you that I like boobs, and penises just don’t do it for me. Sorry.”

Stiles held a hand over his heart, “My life plans, ruined. You’ve hurt me, Jason.”

He gathered up his suit and entered the bathroom to Jason’s laughter. Hanging the suit on the hook behind the door to steam any remaining wrinkles out of it, but leaving the door cracked open so that the wool didn’t soak up any water, Stiles stripped and stepped into the shower.

The hot water helped with the feeling in his stomach, and Stiles found himself trying to let it go. He didn’t need any additional anxiety going into the party.

And if the feeling meant anything, Stiles absolutely did not want to know in advance. That could only end badly.

When his shower was over, Stiles slipped into the suit and used just enough product to make his hair look artfully messy, rather than just a regular messy. He didn’t really know why there was a difference, but he had been told there was. And it was Very Important.

Sometime while he’d been showering -- with the door cracked -- Jess had come into their room and decided to lounge on his bed. She and Jason were both catcalling him before Stiles had the chance to do more than just register her entrance. 

“You know, maybe I could go gay, give me a minute to have an existential crisis,” Jason said, grinning. 

“You clean up nice, Stilinski,” Jess added, giving Stiles the same eye he’d given Jason.

Stiles glanced at the clock -- six forty -- before sighing and saying, “Gee, thanks, guys, I almost feel like that was sincere.”

Jess laughed. “Oh, it was sincere. You look amazing. Jason is totally attempting to imagine getting it on with a guy; he’s just failing.”

“True,” Jason agreed.

Stiles laughed. “I think we’re supposed to be in the hall.”

“Eh, we’ve got a few minutes,” Jess said, waving a hand at him. “Besides, you haven’t commented on my dress yet.”

Said dress was a dark purple with yellow beaded fleur de lis every so often, with a halter top and a heart cut to the front. It was floor-length, but Stiles could see purple pumps on the floor next to his bed.

“You look fantastic,” Stiles said. “If you weren’t you, I’d totally sleep with you.”

“I’ll take it,” Jess said, hopping off the bed and back into her heels. “Get your shoes on! We’ll be late.”

Stiles and Jason shared a look before Stiles put on his dress shoes and followed them into the hall. Angelica was already waiting, as were James and Aaron. James gave Stiles a once-over but otherwise ignored them.

“Good, you’re all here,” Angelica said. “Come with me, please.”

When she started walking down the hall, they followed silently until James asked, “Will you be making introductions?”

“No,” Angelica replied. “Theo will be doing that. All of the Emissaries will greet one another before anyone else can act outside their own group. Theo will introduce you, James, at that time. It’s unnecessary to introduce all of you. That’s what the party is intended to do.”

“Very good,” James said, nodding.

Jason side-eyed James, then grinned at Stiles. Stiles rolled his eyes and Jess coughed, trying to cover a laugh.

Aaron’s lips twitched, but James gamely ignored them. The last few weeks had given him pro status at pretending his agents weren’t all secretly twelve-years-old.

When they reached a large, open space lit by a few glass chandeliers and open to the courtyard by way of walls made of clear glass, Angelica led them through the few groups of people that had already congregated and to where the vampires were standing, quietly chatting among themselves.

“Theo,” Angelica greeted. Stiles noted the lack of formality between them, and filed it away for later. 

“Angelica,” Theo returned. He turned to James, “Director Hunter. Please stand near me when the Central Emissary makes his opening introduction. I will introduce you. You will not be permitted a Second.”

James nodded, seeming as though that had already been explained to him.

It was insulting, but Stiles understood. They were there on invitation, not as an additional party, but as part of the Eastern Emissary’s entourage. 

Aaron, Jason, and Jess didn’t seem to share his opinion.

“What’s a Second?” Jason asked. “Is there a reason why we don’t get one?”

Theo turned a raised eyebrow on Jason, then looked at Angelica.

“I apologize,” Angelica said, inclining her head slightly. “Every Emissary has a Second, to replace them in case of death until a new Emissary can be appointed. As Director Hunter is a guest, and not an Emissary, his introduction is purely polite, rather than necessary. Giving him a Second would be to acknowledge his right to power, which he does not have.” She paused. “I do not mean to be insulting, but you are outsiders to this Counsel, and must be treated as such until a decision is made otherwise. There is no guarantee that such a decision will ever be made.”

“I understand,” James said, turning to look at Jason. 

“Thank you for explaining,” Jason returned, inclining his head as Angelica had done. “Sometimes a lack of knowledge can come across as fear or insult. I did not intend either.”

Angelica smiled. “No, I do not think you did.”

“We are beginning,” Theo said, drawing their attention to the center of the room, where two women were standing, both dressed in similar shades of red, though differing gowns.

While they’d been speaking, the room had filled with the rest of the Emissaries. Stiles took a step back to where he hoped he was hidden behind the den, but where he could still see who he assumed were the Central Emissary and her Second.

The shorter of the two women spoke once the room was silent. “For those who do not know, I am Nicola Grace, the Central Emissary, and this is my Second, Patricia Taylor. I would like to formally welcome you to this year’s Counsel. Should you need anything, I hope that you will speak to one of my Central Emissaries.

“As tradition requires, I invite each of the Emissaries to introduce themselves, as well as their Seconds. This Counsel is based on cooperation and understanding, and no Emissary should be nameless.” She gestured to the group situated counterclockwise from where Stiles was.

Two women stepped forward a few feet, not into the center of the circle, but enough to be seen as separate from the rest of the group behind them. A woman with bright red hair said, “I am Amelia Baker, the Northern Emissary, and this is my Second, Grace Bennett.” Both women inclined their heads before stepping back.

Next, Stiles moved back a little further when Theo took his turn. 

Theo, Angelica, and James stepped into the circle. A rustle of fabric made the interest of the rest of the room obvious. “I am Theodeus Rousseau, the Eastern Emissary, and this is my Second, Angelica Basil. With us is Director James Hunter, a guest of the Eastern Emissaries, and lead of a government organization called the Midnight Division. He will be happy to answer your questions upon commencement of the party.”

The next group moved forward even as Theo, Angelica, and James stepped back.

The man said, “I am Jonas Campbell, the Southern Emissary, and this is my Second, Elice Campbell.” They stepped back almost immediately. 

Stiles took another step backward and felt Jess squeeze his hand. He gave her a grateful look as two very familiar people stepped forward. 

“I am Derek Hale, the Western Emissary, and this is Scott McCall, my Second.” 

As they stepped back, Stiles focused on how Derek’s voice had been calmer than he’d ever heard it in public. He had sounded assured and in control.

It did uncomfortable things to Stiles’ breathing that he chose to ignore.

The Central Emissary nodded to the rest of the room at large. “Thank you, Emissaries, for attending this Counsel. I now announce the official beginning of the Counsel.” She gestured toward the open bar and tables that lined the outside walls of the room. “Please, enjoy refreshments and conversation. Do not hesitate to speak with a Central Emissary if you need anything at all.”

The Central Emissary and her Second walking back to their group seemed to signal the end of the silent circle, as people from all the groups began milling and speaking, with a good portion of them heading for the open bar.

Stiles phone vibrated in his pocket. He clicked it open to read,

 **Jessica Courtney (19:17, 13 April 2028)**  
Okay you can totally be nervous hes insanely hot

He turned to Jess and punched her in the arm. Somehow, her phone was no longer in her hands. “Where are you _keeping_ that?”

“That’s a secret just for girls,” Jess said, attempting to smile enigmatically.

“She means it’s in her boobs,” Jason clarified.

“I’m impressed.” Stiles glanced around the room. “You know how alcohol felt like an excellent idea?”

“On it,” Jess said, making her way toward the open bar and leaving Stiles and Jason with James and Theo. Aaron seemed to have disappeared.

Theo nodded to James. “I will now introduce you to the other Emissaries.”

“Thank you,” James replied. He glanced in Stiles’ direction. 

“Yes, Angelica told me that one of your agents is already acquainted with the Western Emissary. We shall have to speak on that later,” Theo said, glancing briefly in Stiles’ direction. “For now, official introductions must be made.”

“Of course,” James said, following when Theo walked across the room.

Angelica had disappeared and the rest of the den was speaking either amongst one another or with members of other Emissaries around the room.

“I guess we should mingle?” Jason asked.

Stiles grimaced. “You’re sure we can’t just go back to the room and hide until Sunday?”

“You wish,” Jason snorted. “It’s my actual job description to make contacts, and today, it’s yours to make sure I don’t make an ass out of myself. You need to tell me what sort of supernatural creature people are before I speak to them.”

“I know,” Stiles replied, “we’ve been briefing on this for the last ever. I’ve got you.”

“Good,” Jason said. He pointed to a man and woman talking about five feet in front of them. “Go wolfhound, go.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “The man is a dryad and the woman is human.”

“Huh. I didn’t think there would be other humans here.”

“Since humans outnumber supernatural creatures by more than just a lot, there are generally some in every pack, or group, or whatever that particular creature calls it. Sometimes the groups are even more diverse than that,” Stiles explained. “How did you think _I_ was in a pack?”

“Honestly?” Jason turned to Stiles. “I’m pretty convinced you’re not actually human.”

“That’s because he’s not,” a voice said from behind them, cool and well-enunciated. 

Stiles and Jason turned to look at the speaker, a short man with red-gold hair and eyes. 

“I am Jorge Voight, husband to the Second and a Southern Emissary,” the man said, inclining his head. “Am I wrong to assume you are with the human that Rousseau introduced?”

“No,” Jason said, smiling easily. “I’m Jason Curtis, and this is--” Jason paused. “I have no idea how to say your first name.”

Stiles smiled and gave Jorge a shrug. “You can just call me Stiles.”

Jorge nodded. “Of course, though I am rather sure I could pronounce your name.”

“Me, too,” Stiles agreed. “I just don’t want anyone from the Division learning, since they’d start using it. Stiles is safer.”

The man let out a loud laugh, and the red-gold of his eyes lit. “I believe you, young man.”

“So what’s this about Stiles not being human?” Jason asked, smiling at Jorge.

“Stiles isn’t human?”

Jason and Stiles turned to see Jess carrying three beers -- not Blue Moon, thankfully -- and standing behind them. She passed a beer to each of them and came to join their circle with Jorge.

“He is not,” Jorge said. He inclined his head to Jess. “I am Jorge Voight, husband to the Second and a Southern Emissary.”

“Jessica Courtney,” Jess replied, inclining her head as well. “So what is he? He’s never admitted to being anything but human, to us.”

“That’s because I mostly am,” Stiles said, shrugging. “Remember when I told you about para-humans? I’m one of those. Like I said then, I’m basically human, with a little bit of power.”

“Para-human?” Jorge asked. “That is an interesting term. I will have to remember it.” He looked Stiles up and down. “Do you have a different name for yourself, then?”

Stiles shook his head. “No. I know spark is the ancient term.”

“Oh!” Jess exclaimed. “That’s why you told us about those!”

“Not really,” Stiles said. “It was more because the story was positive. There are a lot of stories that aren’t.”

“So when you said you had a bad feeling the other day?” Jason asked, the look that meant “I am puzzling something together” all over his face.

“You should generally listen to me, yeah,” Stiles said, shrugging again. “It doesn’t always mean catastrophe, and when I have a really bad feeling, I tell people, just in more subtle ways.”

“The fae used to collect sparks,” Jorge said. “Keep them to tell the tides of battle and fortune.”

Jess’ eyebrows shot up. “That sounds inhumane.”

“It was,” Jorge agreed. “The practice has been abolished, as far as can be controlled.” He looked at Stiles. “You have a great deal more power than the last spark I encountered.”

“Maybe,” Stiles replied. “I’ve never really trained. Making light and checking to see if we’re all going to die horribly is about as far as I go.”

Jorge nodded. “If you change your mind and would like to train, the Southern Emissary would be glad to foster you.”

“Foster?” Jess asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered. “We live in the Eastern Emissary’s territory, so if any other Emissary requests our presence for an extended period of time, they need the approval of the domiciled Emissary and call it fostering, to make sure everyone knows the person will be returned to their own territory.”

“What if they don’t want to return?” Jason asked. “Are they forced to, anyway?”

“No,” Jorge answered, his voice low. “The rules of fostering are from a day where that would have been true, but we have abolished that practice even more feverishly than we abolished the slavery of the sparks. No person, supernatural or human, can be kept by an Emissary if they do not wish it.”

“Right,” Stiles said. “Otherwise I’d have belonged to Cavendish, which would have been super weird.”

“Cavendish?” Jorge asked. “You are from the Western Territory?”

“Originally, yeah,” Stiles answered. “I moved into the Eastern Territory to go to graduate school, and now I work for the CIA in the Midnight Division.”

Jorge nodded. “Were you acquainted with the supernatural in the Western Territory?”

“I was,” Stiles said, “but it was more than a decade ago. All I’ve got now is the lingering knowledge. No affiliations.” He paused. “That’s not true. The Division as a whole is now affiliated with the Eastern Emissaries. I should say I have no personal affiliations outside of the Division.”

“I see,” said Jorge. He scratched his chin. “I will admit that is strange to me, as I have never known a solitary spark, but I do not know your history and shall not make any undue conclusions.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said. “I appreciate that.”

“Had you ever met the new Western Emissary before today?” Jorge asked.

“We actually haven’t met him yet today,” Jason answered smoothly. “You’re the first person outside our Emissary that we’ve had the pleasure to talk to.”

“You have a very smooth speech,” Jorge said. “Almost fae in your manner. Do not use such glib language with any here but the fae, the dryads, and the naiads. They will not appreciate it. As a rule, the supernatural appreciates honesty above flattery.”

“And I didn’t answer your question,” Stiles said, giving Jason a half-smile. “Jason was trying to keep me from having to. I don’t like answering it.”

“Ah,” Jorge said. “Then I will assume that you have, but ask no more.”

“Again, I appreciate that,” Stiles said. “If your Emissary has any questions for me, I’d be happy to answer them privately, with the caveat that there are some I just won’t answer.”

Nodding, Jorge said, “I will relay that information. My wife’s father is a very understanding man.” He looked sharply over Stiles’ shoulder. “I apologize, but my wife is summoning me.” He inclined his head. “It has been good speaking with you. I shall relate your offer to my Emissary.”

Stiles and Jason inclined their heads in time for Jorge to register them for leaving, Jess just a few beats too late.

“Wow,” she said. “He could tell you weren’t human by looking at you.”

“Most supernatural creatures can either sense the magic or sniff it out.” Stiles paused. “Maybe not _most_ , but definitely a good number.”

“What was he?” Jason asked. 

“Fae,” Stiles answered. “The fae are incredibly powerful with magic, but are also forced to always tell the truth. That part of the legends is actually true. Dryads and naiads are types of fae that focused on a specific element long ago. There were earth and air elementals at one point, but a war wiped them out.”

“And there are dryads and naiads here?” Jason continued. 

Stiles looked around. “Yeah. From what I can tell, there are a good number of fae, naiads, dryads, witches, vampires, and werewolves here. A few humans and some single instances of other things.”

“Is part of the spark thing being able to sense supernatural identities?” Jess asked.

“Sort of?” Stiles said. “Like everything else, it’s just a feeling. Some species just have physical tells that I’ve memorized.”

Jason cut in, “Do the vampires know you’re not human?” 

“Ordinarily, they can’t tell unless there’s a physical characteristic.” Stiles grinned. “I’m pretty sure Angelica has figured it out, though. She made a pretty obvious allusion to it. That means Theo probably knows, too.”

“Is that dangerous?” Jess asked.

“Not if they really are our allies,” Stiles answered. “And I think they are. That’s the spark speaking, so it’s pretty reliable, in case you were wondering.”

“Good to know.”

 

They spent the next three hours mingling and managing to duck anyone Stiles recognized. There was an excruciating ten minute period where Jason was talking to Erica at the bar while getting them drinks, but he didn’t bring her back with him. His only response when he found out was, “So your ex is hot, his Second is hot, and his beta is hot. Is everyone in that pack unrealistically attractive?”

Stiles paused. “Yes?”

“Oh, good,” Jason replied, rolling his eyes. 

It was only when Stiles had his back turned to most of the room, speaking only with Jason and Jess about whether or not they’d stayed long enough, that Stiles got his awkward moment.

“Stiles?”

He recognized the voice immediately, though it was deeper than it had been, and stronger. Stiles turned around. “Isaac.”

“What are you doing here?” Isaac’s face was almost unreadable, and there was little to no inflection in his voice. 

Regardless, Stiles knew Derek was listening. He was always listening to his pack. “I’m with the Midnight Division,” Stiles answered. He gestured to where James and Aaron were speaking with the Southern Emissary. 

Isaac looked him in the eye, and Stiles could see him registering the non-answer for what it was.

Stiles didn’t want to lie. Not out of any loyalty, because he wasn’t that good a person, but out of self-preservation. So he told part of the truth. “I’m the one that sat with the Eastern Emissaries for the alliance. Me, Jess, and Jason.” He gestured behind him. “James, Director Hunter, that is, wanted us to come, but so did Angelica.” He left out the part where Angelica had requested only him, and why.

He watched Isaac force himself to relax. “How’ve you been?” he asked.

“Well,” Stiles replied, feel awkward as a duck in a flock of geese. “And you?”

“Fine,” Isaac said. He looked over his shoulder at Jess and Jason.

“Right,” Stiles said, stepping to the side a little so that he could gesture to Jess and Jason. They stepped forward slightly, Jason smiling politely, Jess looking like she couldn’t decide between smiling and being concerned. “These are my teammates, Jason Curtis and Jessica Courtney. Jason is our liaison and Jess is on the task force.”

Isaac put a hand for each of them to shake. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said politely. “How did you get onto a supernatural task force?”

“Accident?” Jess replied. “I was really good at my job really quickly. Apparently I have excellent leadership skills. James snipes all the good agents. All the other Division Directors are intimidated by him, so it works for him.”

“Same,” Jason said. “I was a field agent for a different Division, but I was better at charming assets than bringing the smackdown, so I got recruited to be what’s essentially a peacemaker.”

Stiles watched as Isaac’s eyes fell on him again. He cleared his throat. “I got poached,” he said. “Same as them, but I probably deserved it. I’m actually just an analyst, no real field status. I walked one of my agents into a vampire den and was lucky it was the Eastern Emissary’s. I got transferred the next day.”

“Wait, seriously?” Jess asked, turning to him. “James said he recruited you because you picked out a vampire from a grainy camera feed and _saved_ your agent.”

“That’s another way you could put it, sure,” Stiles said, shrugging. “It would have been better not to walk him in at all.”

Jason smiled. “But then you wouldn’t be here with us.” Stiles could see the real mirth around Jason’s eyes and barely resisted punching him.

Isaac took a very small step back. “It was nice to catch up,” he said.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. I’ll see you around the Counsel.”

Nodding, Isaac turned on his heel and walked away.

Stiles waited a few moments before he turned his glare on both Jess and Jason. “Can we leave _now_?”

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Getting so many comments from new folks is fantastic! I love it! You're all amazing, and totally why this crazy fic is finished. I hope you stick with it!
> 
> Trivia for this chapter: What do Tyler Hoechlin and Brandon Routh have in common?   
> Winner! doctordub 
> 
> The answer to last chapter's was: Star Trek TOS. In the 90s.


	16. In Which Stiles is Really Just Too Drunk to Deal With This Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! New chapter! I like this chapter, for all that it does. It's normal chapter-sized, too, so enjoy that while it exists?
> 
> I have also decided that I _am_ going to post Su/T/Th, because it's done, why not?
> 
> Trigger warning: legal alcohol consumption.  
> Trigger warning: off-screen death.

A few hours into a game of poker that Stiles was shamelessly using his spark to win, Aaron knocked on Stiles’ and Jason’s door to summon the two of them and Jess to speak with James. 

All three had changed into their sleep clothes shortly after returning to the rooms, and Stiles was sporting a pair of CIA sweatpants from his training days and an old T-shirt he was pretty sure had once been Scott’s. Jess and Jason weren’t much better.

Stiles looked at the hotel-provided alarm clock on the bedside table. It told him in neon green that it was one thirty in the morning. James could deal with sleep clothes.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, and followed Aaron out the door, assuming Jess and Jason would follow.

Once they were in James and Aaron’s room, James debriefed them on his encounters and then stared at them.

“You want us to debrief?” Jason asked, making Jess giggle.

They may have continued drinking in the room.

James visibly ground his teeth. “Yes, Jason. I want you to debrief.”

“Okay,” Jason said, sitting down on what was probably Aaron’s bed. “We met a lot of people. Stiles was a great supernatural decoder. We left around ten thirty.”

“More details,” James said, leaning back into the plush armchair by the dresser in his room. Stiles didn’t even question how James had come to have a plush armchair. It was James.

“The Southern Emissary’s Second’s husband came to speak with us first, since he recognized that we were humans and probably with the MD,” Stiles said, sitting down next to Jason and bouncing a little when Jess dropped next to him straight onto her back. “He figured out I know the Western Emissary and I told him that I agreed to sit with his Emissary if he felt it was necessary, but that I wasn’t going to go into detail in a crowded room.”

James nodded. “Good. Continue.”

“We talked to a couple dryads who wanted to know what the MD does, they were polite,” Jess put in, raising an arm in the air in what closely resembled the sieg heil.

“The night mostly went on like that,” Jason said. “We weren’t told anything of interest and we didn’t get to speak with any of the Emissaries.”

“Not even Hale?” James asked, turning to stare at Stiles.

Stiles shook his head. “Nope. You’re going to have to drag me into that conversation.”

“I’ll remember that,” James said. “I expect you to write the names of everyone you met, which group they were from, and what you spoke about in your final brief.”

“Yup,” Stiles agreed, giving James a thumb’s up.

James sighed. “How drunk are you?”

“Not as much as we should be,” Stiles said, shrugging. “Probably just an inch past tipsy. Jess just loosens up really quickly.”

Jess giggled. “He knows that.”

Jason and Stiles both turned to stare at her.

“I really don’t fucking want to know, do I?” Jason asked.

Stiles shook his head violently. “No. Never. Do not tell us.”

“Please,” Aaron added, causing all three of them to stare at him.

James let out a low laugh, then cleared his throat. “Tomorrow. Theo has told me that the Emissaries themselves are meeting to hammer out a schedule for Saturday, but that they’ll be taking periodic breaks to get input from their Seconds. The rest of us are supposed to bring anything we want discussed to our particular Second.” He paused. “We’re obviously going to ask for a formal alliance with the Counsel. I want to discuss the logistics of that.”

“Now?” Stiles asked.

“Yes, now,” James said. 

“As far as my logistics go, I’ve got that it’s a good idea and we should put it in a way where it’s to their benefit more than ours,” Stiles said, resisting the urge to flop back like Jess had.

“Jesus,” James muttered. “Jason?”

“I’m with him,” Jason said, pointing a thumb at Stiles.

“Same,” Jess called, waving a hand around in the air.

“I think we ought to meet for breakfast,” Aaron put in, setting down the tablet he had been holding, likely meant for notes that weren’t going to happen.

“Fine,” James breathed. “The three of you, go sleep it off.”

“Yes, sir,” Jess said, sitting up. “Now help me up.”

James raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, there was a loud series of knocks on the door.

Aaron answered it before it fell down to Hannah, the Eastern Emissaries’ scribe, whose expression was going from horrified to relieved.

“I checked your rooms,” she said, gesturing to Stiles, Jason, and Jess. “They were empty. Thank Christ you’re in here.”

James stood and crossed his arms. “Why? What’s happening?”

“The Southern Emissary has been killed. He was found still bleeding, so we knew the perpetrators were still out there. The Southern Emissary’s Second, now acting Emissary, was convinced it was you,” Hannah said, all in one breath. Stiles knew vampires didn’t need to breathe, but he was still impressed. “How long have you all been in here?”

James glanced at the clock. “Maybe half an hour. Aaron and I were with Angelica for an hour beforehand.” He glanced at Stiles, Jason, and Jess.

“We’ve been drinking in Jason and Stiles’ room since ten thirty,” Jess said, looking significantly more sober than she had only minutes before.

“All right,” Hannah said, taking a deep breath. “There are cameras that can confirm all of this, but Theo sent me to immediately make sure you were all right, and to dissuade anyone who came for you of your guilt.”

“Oh, goodie,” Stiles said. He paused. “Christ. I thought it was Derek, but it was this.” When he looked up, everyone in the room was staring at him. 

“ _What_ was this?” James asked, narrowing his eyes. 

“I had a bad feeling before the party,” Stiles said. “It was like a punch to the gut. I attributed it to how much I do not want to have to see Derek, but I didn’t. See him, that is. I just didn’t try to figure out what else it could’ve been.”

“A bad feeling?” James asked, raising his eyebrows. “Are you psychic now?”

“No, he is a spark,” Angelica said, stepping into the doorway. “He can sense the intentions of both creatures and the universe.” She turned to Stiles. “Why did you not share your feeling with anyone?”

Stiles snorted. “Because I didn’t want anyone to know just how much running into Derek was going to freak me out. He had to smell me the moment I walked into the room, but he didn’t approach me.” He paused. “He sent Isaac to do it. Shit. I should’ve figured that out.”

“Alcohol,” Jason said, shrugging. “We can’t fix it now, or, at least, the dead Emissary part. Maybe we can help catch the actual culprit.” He turned to Hannah. “You said there are cameras? Can you get us to them?”

Angelica answered. “Yes. That is why I came. You are the Central Intelligence Agency. The Emissaries, once returned to logic, agree that you are the most logical choice to look through any electronic evidence.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said. “Take us there.” He paused. “And if someone could get us coffee, that would be great.”

 

Five minutes later, Stiles, Jason, and Jess were in the hotel’s security room. The hotel turned out to be owned by the Central Emissary for the explicit purpose of hosting the Counsel every five years, so the cameras and equipment were state of the art, but didn’t penetrate any of the actual rooms. Stiles was into their logs in seconds, connecting his MD terminal’s facial recognition to the scan.

James had gone with Angelica to meet with the Emissaries while Aaron had gone to brave the masses and explain what their team was doing. Stiles didn’t envy him.

They were being supervised by Hannah and one of the Central Emissaries, Melanie Underhill, a dryad with very little patience. 

“Have you found him yet?” Melanie asked, crossing her arms and pacing back and forth behind Stiles. Jason and Jess were making a diagram of the area where Jonas Campbell had been found, marking entrances and exits, and placing cameras and camera paths where they were likely to be.

Stiles was trying to get Jonas at the party and follow him until he left. When he finally got him, maybe five minutes into looking, he pulled up the recording on the main screen and kept his laptop filtering the rest of the video for anyone looking directly at a camera. It was a useful code he’d written, since guilty parties had a tendency to look guilty. The dumb ones, at least. “All right,” he said. “I’ve got him leaving the party with his daughter and going into the atrium. They’re sitting and talking, and then she stands and gestures for them to go inside. He waves her off and stays in the atrium.” The video kept rolling and three individuals walked into the atrium, completely ignoring the cameras.

“These three show up,” Stiles continued, “and Mr. Black Leather yells something at the Southern Emissary.”

“That’s Everett Hill, a fae member of the Southern Emissary,” Hannah put in. 

“All right, Hill yells at Campbell, then Suede shoes--”

“Joseph Sugar, also a fae member of the Southern Emissary.”

“--shoves Hill aside and grabs Campbell’s collar. Token female bad guy, because we’re politically correct with our murders--”

“Jennifer Steele, a witch of the Central Emissary.”

“--yells something and Sugar pulls a knife out of his snazzy jacket and jams it into Campbell’s neck. Steele grabs him and all three run out the Southern gate of the atrium and into the North Ballroom.” Stiles switched the camera. “They run through the North Ballroom and out the fancy French doors into the parking lot--” another camera change, “--and into one of the black SUVs that everyone here seems to drive. Illinois License Plate FY7 1892.” Stiles pulled up the city’s CCTV feeds his GPS picked up in that area. “Top left, they drive South, top middle, they turn East, top right, they drive past the freeway entrance, bottom left, they turn onto a frontage road next to the freeway, bottom middle, the pull off the frontage road onto a dirty road, bottom right, satellite imagery has them stopping outside a large warehouse, being greeted by some more casually dressed people, probably werewolves by the glare, and going inside the warehouse.”

Stiles flicked the camera to real time via fast forward.

“And they haven’t left,” Jason finished. “They’re either the stupidest murderers in the history of intelligent people committing murders, or it’s a trap.”

“Or they figured everyone would assume it was us and not even bother looking,” Jess said. “Which: also stupid.”

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Human does not equal evil. We only considered it because you were new.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes at his computer screen. “Someone can sit here at stare at the camera, but I don’t think they’re going anywhere.”

“You don’t think, or you feel like?” Jason asked.

“I don’t feel like they’re going anywhere.” Stiles swiveled his chair around to look at the people in the room. “I feel like it’s a trap.”

“You’re a goddamn spark, aren’t you?” Melanie asked, practically hissing. “Why didn’t you warn us?”

“He thought the feeling was related to something else,” Jason answered, meeting Melanie’s glare with a placid expression. “No one is right 100% of the time.”

“These are specific feelings toward specific things,” Stiles said. “They’re probably right. The intensely bad feeling I had earlier this evening was about the party in general. I had no reason to expect it had anything to do with murder, and every reason to expect it was about something else.”

Melanie ground her teeth, then turned to Hannah. “Please stay here and monitor the cameras. I’ll send one of our own to replace you, so you can rejoin your Emissary, as soon as I can.”

Hannah nodded. “Of course. However I can help.”

“You three,” Melanie said, looking between Stiles, Jason, and Jess. “You’re coming with me to explain what we’ve learned.” She looked at her phone. “The Counsel are rejoining their Emissaries. We should be able to address the entire party at once.”

In the background, Hannah gasped. Melanie turned to her. “Magnus has been killed as well,” Hannah said, staring at her phone. They found him in a hall leading to the atrium. 

Stiles pulled up the footage of the hallways leading to the atrium until he found the one where the tall vampire was standing, having an illegal indoor smoke, when the three murderers literally ran into him, tore his head off his shoulders, and ran on.

“Same culprits,” Stiles said calmly. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I will continue to monitor the warehouse,” Hannah said. “Please go find justice.”

More quietly, Melanie said, “I will send Ingrid to replace you as soon as possible.”

Hannah nodded, and Melanie gestured them out of the room. “Follow me,” she said, not looking back as she left.

“I’m going to have to speak in front of the Counsel, aren’t I?” Stiles asked, directing the question at no one in particular.

Melanie answered, “Yes,” and kept walking.

Jess squeezed his elbow and Jason said, “If it helps, you’re sort of the hero of this story?”

Snorting, Stiles said, “If by ‘hero’ you mean the guy who can hack cameras.”

“Still,” Jess said. “We know who did it because of you, we know where to find them, _and_ we know it’s a trap. That makes you the hero in my book, at least until someone actually carpet bombs the damn warehouse.”

“Yeah, domestic soil, not so much,” Jason said, but he was smiling. “She’s right, Stiles. It might suck, but it could suck more.”

As they approached the room where the party had been held, Melanie cut in, “If you’re all quite finished.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, steeling his shoulders. Jess gave him another quick squeeze on the elbow before doing the same. Stiles had a moment of clarity and resultant insanity when he realized he was going to be addressing the entire Emissaryship in his pajamas. Part of which probably still smelled enough like Scott to be awkward. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered, stepping into the room where everyone was gathered. 

Melanie got everyone out of the way so that they could approach the actual Emissaries Stiles reminded himself that he was one of the youngest Senior Analysts the CIA had ever had, he was 29, and he was not going to run away from his ex-boyfriend. 

It helped less than he’d hoped, but he’d gotten his breathing under control and was sporting his best Work Face. It wouldn’t fool anyone who could hear his heartbeat, which was almost everyone, but it was something.

Stiles looked pointedly at Theo and Angelica when he made it to the other side of what could only be described as a supernatural mob. James was standing with them and immediately said, “Update.”

That helped. “The hotel and CCTV got the whole thing. Three people -- Everett Hill, Joseph Sugar, and Jennifer Steele -- ran into Magnus Everhart into the hall on their way to the atrium and killed him. They entered the atrium, appeared to argue with Emissary Campbell, then killed him and left. Cameras follow them their entire route, ending at a warehouse near the lake. They haven’t left,” Stiles said, getting the whole thing out by staring directly at James. It was a normal mission update. 

He’d keep telling himself that. 

“Assessment?” James asked, looking between Stiles, Jason, and Jess. 

“It’s a trap,” Stiles said.

“Agreed,” said Jason. “There’s no way they’re stupid enough to accidentally leave a perfectly recorded trail. There were ways they could have taken that would have lost us.” 

“I might have caught them, but it would have taken longer, which would have indicated an attempt to escape. Instead, they led us straight to them and are staying put,” Stiles continued. “As further evidence of a trap, they met several people outside the warehouse before the group went back inside, all of whom were recognizably supernatural.”

James nodded, like all of this made sense. Stiles envied his ability to always look in control of the situation, despite the fact that he knew he looked the same. Looked, but didn’t sound.

“So I am to understand clearly,” Theo said, breaking Stiles’ fixation on James, “that two members of the Southern Emissary as well as one of the Central killed the Southern Emissary Actual and are plotting to catch whomever follows them in a trap.”

“Yes,” Jason answered. “Jess -- Agent Courtney -- and I did a tactical workup of the warehouse. It’s in a wide space, no cover, any former debris removed. It’s incredibly defensible and a complete deathtrap for anyone attacking.”

“Agreed,” Jess continued. “There are two storeys, the second of which has a significant number of windows where a sniper or other distance fighter could set themselves up in order to keep an attack from ever reaching their doors.”

“I see,” said Theo slowly. “Then they have appeared to have given us two options. Either we attack and lose many, or do nothing and lose the justice and integrity that the Counsel represents.” He raised an eyebrow. “Either way, we are grievously injured as an entity.”

“Do you have anything else?” James asked, bringing Stiles’ attention back to him. 

“No, sir,” Jason said. Stiles and Jess shook their heads in agreement with Jason’s negative.

“I recommend that we break and discuss with our Emissaries,” Theo said calmly. “If we do so and reconvene in an hour, we ought to be able to have a more informed, more productive conversation.”

In turn, each of the Emissaries agreed.

James walked directly at where Stiles, Jason, and Jess were standing, so they turned and let themselves be ushered into the corner where the den was congregating.

“I was wrong,” Stiles said, looking at no one. “I am way too drunk for this.”

“Absolutely not, Stiles,” James said, quieter than he might usually. “This was excellent work, and I’m not letting you cop out of helping us fix this.”

“Fix what?” Jason asked, catching the group’s attention. “What is there to fix? We can’t bring a man back from the dead -- two men back from the dead -- and we aren’t invincible. Even we can’t attack a building that defensible. We’d need an army and considerably more dubious morals. I don’t know about you, but I’m against getting anyone else killed tonight.”

James grabbed Jason’s shoulder and spun him around so that he was meeting James’ eyes. Jess and Stiles turned, half out of solidarity, half out of shock. “There’s always a risk, in everything we do, that someone isn’t coming back. That doesn’t mean we don’t try. I’m not suggesting we simply throw people at the building, fuck the casualties. I’m suggesting we use the intelligence of the best of the Agency to _figure something out_ ,” James said, practically spitting the words out at the end.

Jason’s eyes narrowed and Stiles cut him off. “We can do it. We’ve faced more impossible situations,” he said. “Maybe not together, but if we can do it separately, we can do it even better, working together.”

“Right,” Jason said, turning and walking the rest of the distance to the den.

Jess glanced between Stiles and James. “I sure as shit hope we know what we’re doing.” She looked in the direction of Theo and Angelica, who were staring down at a diagram of the warehouse with Hannah standing directly behind them. “And this relationship had damn well better be worth it.”

James met her gaze. “It will be.”

“Yeah, it will,” Stiles said, letting out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “I can feel it.”

Jess looked between them once more before breathing, “Fuck,” and leaving to join Jason.

“You’re going to explain that,” James said quietly, watching Jess leave.

“I’m a spark,” Stiles said. “I can feel good and bad. It’s usually more of a pain in the ass than anything else.” He glanced at James side-eyed. “It sure could have been more useful tonight.”

“You’re going to explain that, too,” James said, walking away.

“Not if I don’t have to,” Stiles replied, knowing that James was too far away to hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit a plot! Oh man! I mean, sure, the plot has always been "OMG Derek and Stiles!" but -- it's also been leading to this. This story could have been twice as long if I'd fully developed this plot, but as it stands, I used it to supplement the story, rather than guide it. I hope folks enjoyed.
> 
> [doctordub](http://archiveofourown.org/users/doctordub/pseuds/doctordub) won last chapter's trivia question, so feel free to go request a drabble in any of my fandoms on [my LiveJournal](http://pyrrhical.livejournal.com), in the sticky entry.
> 
> This chapter's question: which Teen Wolf actor/actress got their first real recognition on Stargate SG-1?  
> Winners! iMOCKusALL and Okaycanyousee
> 
> (I'm going to start putting winners on here as soon as I have one, so people don't keep guessing. I only have so much time! Sorry, guys.)
> 
> Always feel free to go follow me on [Tumblr](http://approximatelytrue.tumblr.com); I'm working on figuring that stuff out.


	17. In Which Stiles is a Badass and Everyone Else is Pretty Okay Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter. I actually sort of enjoyed the _shit_ out of writing this chapter. Of course, warning for "hahaha, yeah, I made all that tech stuff up (based on some loose knowledge and The Googles)" because: I have three degrees, but none of them are actually in Hacking Supergenius Badassery. Sorry.
> 
> This chapter is also a reasonable length. I'm starting to remember where this got out of hand. (Hint: the last couple chapters, esp. the last chapter, where I sort of went "AND I WILL FINISH THIS COME HELL OR HIGH WATER!" and just kept typing. Chapter 21 is 20 pages and 7600 words, so, I'm sorry, that could have been two chapters, but whatever.)
> 
> Enjoy! Oh, and-- thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! They really do make my day! I've now finished two side stories, so you can rest assured this 'verse will continue. :)

When Stiles reached where the Eastern Emissary had congregated, James was already assuring Theo that they would do everything in their power to help.

“I thank you,” Theo said calmly. “What you can do now is help us to think.”

“Stiles,” Angelica said, then gestured to the seat next to her, “sit. Please.”

Stiles sat, allowing himself to be in a small circle containing Theo, Angelica, James, and Hannah. James gestured for Jason and Jess to join them, and two more seats were pulled up.

“The den will let us know if they think of anything,” Angelica said. “For now, we six will strategize together.”

James was staring at the layout of the warehouse that Jason and Jess had marked while Stiles had been showing Hannah and Melanie what had happened. James glanced up at Jason. “This is accurate?”

“Yes,” Jason said. “Camera on the road is fixed, no rotation, and Stiles completely retasked the satellite to keep running continuous footage of the warehouse.”

“Ingrid and Joseph of the Central Emissaries are watching the feed, and have promised that they will alert us if anything changes. We can only assume it hasn’t,” Hannah said.

“Can you retask any more satellites to get a parallel visual?” James asked, turning to Stiles.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “I can start the calculations for how to do that, but I can’t guarantee I’ll make it work, between the angle needed and the orbit of the satellite.”

“Try,” James said, eyes going back to the map.

Pulling his tablet out of his messenger bag, which some Emissary had brought him while he was working -- he hadn’t asked her name and felt sort of like an ass about it -- Stiles pulled open a page to start running calculations. He was still programming in the algorithm he was going to need, from scratch, when Jason said,

“What about from the air?”

“An aerial assault?” James asked.

Angelica was already shaking her head. “For those who can fly, an aerial assault is meaningless.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, “but it might give us enough of an element of surprise to catch them off guard.”

“Nope,” Stiles said, still typing. “No way they haven’t counted on us watching them and are watching us right back. They’ve probably hacked the satellite I retasked to see exactly what we’re seeing.” He glanced up. “I put a firewall on it to keep them from fucking with it, but the effort to put one around accessing it seemed like an unnecessary waste of time.”

“Keep programming,” James said, waving a hand. “No aerial assault.”

“We once fault a battle, during the Crimean War, where we used natural underground formations to enter the stronghold from below,” Hannah said. “Can we get a picture of the ground beneath the warehouse?”

“Stiles?” James asked.

Stiles grit his teeth. “Which do you want me to do: task another satellite or conduct an impromptu geological survey?”

“Can you use one to do that other?” Jess asked.

Stiles stared at her. “Yes.” He worked on rewriting part of his unfinished algorithm.

“All right,” James said. “We’ll see what we can do with that. Other ideas?”

“Angelica was not wrong,” Theo said, collecting everyone’s attention. “For humans, you are all quite impressive.” He glanced at Stiles. “For your kind, even you, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, dropping his attention back to his tablet, keeping half an ear on the conversation.

The hour passed without Stiles realizing and the Central Emissary was calling the Counsel and their Seconds to meet and discuss possibilities before turning them loose on the rest of the Emissaryship.

Theo and Angelica got up, then gestured to James. “Come with us,” Theo said.

“Of course,” James said. He glanced at Stiles. “Get us when you have that satellite.”

They walked away while Stiles gave a half-hearted wave and continued tweaking his algorithm.

Jess moved into the seat next to Stiles and whispered, “Incoming.”

Without looking up, Stiles muttered, “Unless they know quantum physics and how it relates to the reprogramming of satellite torque, keep them away from me.”

“I’m not even sure what you just said,” Jess whispered.

“That was the point,” Stiles replied, waving a hand at her. “I’ve almost got it. I think. Shoo.”

A conversation happened over Stiles’ head, slowly increasing in volume, and Stiles tuned it out completely. There was something keeping the algorithm from working when it should have been perfect. 

Oh. That. Stiles could fix that--

“I have the satellite where we want it,” Stiles said, his voice louder than intended. “Running ground survey search and tasking every barometer in the metro for echolocation. Retasking satellite to translate imagery. And--done.” Stiles sat up, realizing he’d been hunched like a maniac over his tablet. A series of spikes registered on a chart on the screen of his tablet.

“Translate it, Stilinski,” James’ voice said from over his shoulder. Stiles hadn’t noticed him return.

“It’s searching for empty space via echolocation, using the storm pressure barometers nearby and the dual-imaging of the two satellites working together. The second satellite is taking photo imagery of the warehouse in the background, but torque is going to break the connection soon, sorry, couldn’t fix that, would have to completely build an operating system into the satellite, too much time.” Stiles paused. “Oh. Right. It’s searching the space for places under the ground that are open, rather than filled.” Stiles watched the spikes on the screen. “Every time it spikes, it finds an open space. For anything stable, it needs to get to 1500 and stay there, or above there, for at least twelve seconds. Then I can pull up a land map and fix the echolocation over the space.”

“Have there been any significant spikes?” James asked, putting a hand on Stiles shoulder and gripping. 

“Yes. Two. They’re not connected, though, and they’re to the West of the warehouse. Not helpful,” Stiles said.

On his screen, the little blue line -- Stiles liked blue, red lines just felt like they were marking death or something -- shot up and wobbled, like it was going over pebbles. It stayed that way for thirteen seconds before dropping again. It spiked again four seconds later and stayed there for nearly a minute.

Stiles sat back. “It’s not done, but it worked. There are natural tunnels underneath the warehouse. Probably from old watersheds that used to run into Lake Michigan.”

“When will you have the map?” James asked.

“I should have an overlay map in about forty-five minutes,” Stiles said. James gripped his shoulder more tightly. “If I give you anything less complete, everyone could die.” He watched the rises and falls of the line on his tablet. “I have to wait until it’s done.”

“For thoroughness, or because you just do?” Jason asked, off to Stiles’ right somewhere.

“Both,” Stiles said, pushing the screen with the line to the corner of his tablet and pulling up the photo imagery from the satellite. He hacked one of the hotel’s wireless printers and sent the images to it. “Pictures of the warehouse from the East should be available. A satellite from the West should be in range for those for about eight seconds in seventeen minutes. The North and South won’t be for thirty-three and forty-two minutes. I could only get this satellite to stay in a stable rotation, and we’ll lose it in fifty-three minutes. The satellite directly above the warehouse is in a fixed, stable orbit, and should keep that connection for at least the next six hours. Maybe seven.”

No one moved. 

“Go get the pictures off the printer, Jesus,” Stiles growled. “I don’t need people staring at a little line they don’t understand and breathing on me like creepers.”

Jason let out a snort, then said, “You heard him, everyone go do something productive. Aaron, go grab the pictures.”

There was a pause, then, “Aaron is my assistant, Jason. Not a go-fer.” James’ voice was annoyed.

“Nope, totally a go-fer today,” Aaron said, his voice amused. “I’ll be back in a few.”

“Get the main table out of the hall and in here, then get the larger warehouse map set out and the pictures lined up with it,” sad a male voice that Stiles didn’t recognize.

People moved to obey, but Stiles could still feel others at his back.

Whatever. He ignored it.

He sent the satellite photos to the printer when they became available and yelled for someone to go get them when it happened. When the echolocation finished, it had been forty-eight minutes, and Stiles had printed the full wave pattern to build the overlay map. After he’d programmed in the waves in order to generate the map, he set them down, only to have them disappear a few seconds later.

Weird, but whatever. He ignored it.

When he had the overlay map finished, he printed it and a size-matching print of the warehouse diagram Jason and Jess had made. He set his tablet down and stood up to go get those himself. Or, he would have, but someone had moved one of the side tables, and he went down in a heap.

“Fuck,” Stiles said, staring at the ceiling. “Someone go grab the shit I just sent to the printer. The overlay is done.”

“On it,” Stiles heard Aaron say.

Then, “Need some help down there?” Jess’ voice was amused. 

“I haven’t tripped over anything that doesn’t move in years, Jess. I think it’s a sign. It means Stiles should stay here on the floor and let everyone else do the rest of the hard work.” Stiles waved a hand in what he thought was Jess’ general direction. “It may also be a sign that I haven’t had anything to drink in--” he checked his watch, “--about four hours, and there’s probably still alcohol taking advantage of that fact.”

“Then let’s get you some water, champ,” Jess said, and Stiles saw her hand descend in front of him, her voice coming from where one of his legs was on top of the table, and the other was on the floor next to it.

“You’re making me move, aren’t you?” Stiles asked, pulling his leg off the table and ignoring the throb that was likely to be an enormous bruise in a few minutes. He grabbed Jess’ hand and let her be his balance as he stood in the tiny space between the table and the chair he’d been sitting in. “Seriously, who the fuck moved that table?”

“You did,” Jason said, coming to stand next to Jess as Stiles wiped imaginary dust off his clothes. “You said, and I quote, ‘I need another fucking table, like, where is another fucking table, okay, right, put it here.’ So I did. You tripped over your own instructions, Stiles.”

Stiles glared at him. “Way to rub it in.”

Jason shrugged. “I live to please.”

Stiles glanced around the room and noticed that most of the Emissaries had disappeared, excluding the actual Emissaries and their Seconds, who were crowded around an enormous mahogany table. There were also still a distressing number of of the Beacon Hills pack still in the room, either helping at the table, or staring at him.

He _had_ been making a lot of noise. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, spinning in a circle. “Where’s that water?”

“There are bottles at the bar,” Jess said, grabbing his shoulders and pointing him in the right direction. “I’m pretty sure you need food, too.”

“I’ll go loot the kitchen again,” Jason said. Stiles registered the “again,” filed away asking about that for later, and let himself be led to the bar. Jess reached over and pulled out three bottles of water, handing one to Stiles.

“Okay,” she said. “Finish that.” She shook another bottle. “Then this one.”

“Since when are you my mother?” Stiles asked, taking a long drink from the first bottle.

“Since you decided to wunderkind some sort of weird satellite magic that I will never understand, that was not an invitation, and probably saved the day. Again. James will kill me if I let you die of dehydration less than fifty miles from an enormous freshwater lake.” Jess was grinning and Stiles grinned back.

“Fair enough.” His grin deepened. “Though dead me would stick around for that. It would be hilarious.”

Hannah appeared at his shoulder before Jess could reply. “James wants you at the table,” she said, giving him a “come on” gestured as she turned to walk back.

“Can I finish my water?” Stiles asked, trying to build up the courage to approach the table for any reason.

“Yes. It travels,” Hannah said. If she were any less dignified, Stiles was convinced she would have rolled her eyes.

Jess snickered. Stiles glared at her. Jason took that moment to show up with three fresh muffins. He handed one each to Jess and Stiles. “Finish that,” he said, pointing a finger at Stiles.

Jess laughed outright and Stiles rolled his eyes. Even intense awkwardness was better than being parented by Jason and Jess. He turned, muffin and water in his hands, to follow Hannah. He stopped at the table beside James and asked, “What?”

Stiles took a bite of muffin as James replied, “Explain this overlay and help us plan.”

“It’s an overlay, it defines itself,” Stiles said, ignoring the fact that James was his boss, and would probably fire him. He was running on adrenaline and a dehydration headache, everyone could just fuck right off.

“It does not, and I will not tolerate your impudence,” the Central Emissary said, her voice a whip cord.

Stiles made the mistake of looking to respond to her and caught both Derek and Scott out of the corner of his eye, expressions hard as they stared at him along with the rest of the table. Stiles took a deep breath in and out, then responded, “Sorry. I’m exhausted and rocking a great dehydration headache. What about the overlay map should I explain?” He finished off his first bottle of water.

Jess actively leaned over him, took it, and placed the second one in his hand. Stiles resisted turning and glaring at her only because he was pretty sure the Central Emissary would actually kill him.

The Central Emissary waved a hand over the map. “The shading and gradient. There is no notation on this map explaining what the symbols and colors mean.”

Stiles glanced down at the map for the first time. “Sorry,” he said again. “I think I meant to put a legend on there.” He gestured to a twisting line of dark shading that faded into a speckled gradient. “The colors and gradients mark the size of the tunnel.” He pointed to the sets of numbers that ran alongside the tunnels. “These are, first, the distance beneath the surface, and second, the probability that the tunnel will hold up with the additional vibration of someone walking through it.” He gestured to a dark black line that wound its way across the map, starting in a deep tunnel at the edge and ending underneath the warehouse. “This is the safest, quietest, and most direct route to get into the tunnel from the forest and follow it to where it ends beneath the warehouse.”

“Very good,” the Central Emissary said, nodding. “You’re not nearly so incompetent as I thought.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows but got an elbow in the side from James before he could respond.

“So we have a way in,” James said. “Now all we need is a plan.” He glanced at Stiles.

Throwing his hands in the air, Stiles said, “I have nothing. I’m pretty sure my brain shut off completely when it hit the ground over there.” Stiles gestured vaguely in the direction of where he’d tripped over the table. 

James rolled his eyes. Stiles gawked. 

“That is fine,” Angelica put in, drawing the table’s attention away from James and Stiles. “This has given us more than we would have had under any other circumstances. There may be a way to succeed.” She smiled at Stiles.

The part of him that only kicked in when he was exhausted and he couldn’t use his personality to get in the way himself not-so-subtly reminded Stiles of all the other times she’d done that. She was hitting on him. That was new and interesting. Stiles was going to think about that later, much later, when he’d slept and eaten more than a muffin.

He shoved the rest of the muffin into his mouth in one go and let himself drop forward to lean on the table. The conversation continued above him, and while Stiles paid attention, he did it with half an ear. The adrenaline was wearing off, the dehydration headache was getting worse, and Stiles was pretty sure they didn’t need him anymore.

Except.

“Wait, what?” Stiles asked, using his arms to lever himself upright, as his muscles weren't otherwise cooperating. 

Angelica blinked at him once, seemingly perplexed, then repeated, “If we send in a few small teams tasked with specific things, we should be able to get into the warehouse without being heard and neutralize the enemy with the fewest casualties.”

“Yeah, timeout,” Stiles said. He pulled the map and overlay, then put them side-by-side. “The tunnel is really deep, where it runs beneath the warehouse. I had it end in the most shallow space, where it’s only three feet beneath the surface. That might not seem like a lot, but it’s probably solid concrete foundation. There’s no way anyone’s getting in without making the racket from hell.”

“Then please explain how any of this map has been helpful,” Theo said, raising an eyebrow at Stiles.

“It’s a way in,” Stiles said. “That’s what you wanted, that’s what I produced. It’s not a perfect plan all by itself.”

“What do you suggest, then?” James asked, clenching his jaw.

“A distraction?” Stiles guessed. “Something to distract them from how loud digging into the warehouse is going to be. We’re going to need industrial-level digging tools to break apart that concrete in any sort of time, and they’re going to be almost deafening.” He paused, then took a deep breath. “Jesus. We need those sonic bombs Jennings got off that black market dealer.” He looked at James. “If we detonate them at the right time, anyone not expecting them will have ringing ears for the next, I don’t know, fuck, seven minutes.”

“We don’t have time for Jennings to fly bombs out,” James stated, though his voice was quiet.

“Then we need to build some,” another voice said, and Stiles flinched.

He turned to see Lydia with an expression on her face that Stiles recognized as, “how on earth do I deal with all of these idiots, really.”

“How do you suggest we do that?” the Central Emissary cut in, voice cold. “This is not a weapons manufacturing facility.”

“Of course it’s not,” Lydia continued. “A basic sonic bomb doesn’t need one.” She paused. “I just need a few chemicals, metal, and a catalyzing agent.” She looked straight at Stiles. “Do you have the specs for the bombs?”

“On the server,” Stiles confirmed. “I took one apart so we could figure out how to counteract them.”

“And did you?” Lydia asked.

“Figure out how to counteract them? Yeah. Damp cotton,” Stiles said, shrugging again.

“Good. The last thing we want is to deafen ourselves as well.” Lydia glanced at Derek. “I need Allison and Boyd, and Chris on the phone.”

Derek nodded. “Do it.”

Lydia glanced back over at Stiles. “Get me the specs.”

“Yup,” Stiles said, backing away from the table.

James grabbed him by the sleeve. “Jason, you do it. They’re on the main server, in Stiles’ ridiculous ‘Shit I Took Apart’ folder.”

“On it,” Jason said, snorting. 

“Collect our sidearms,” James added.

Jason waved a hand in acknowledgement, then grabbed Stiles’ tablet and jogged out of the room.

“So we have a plan?” Angelica asked.

“I believe we do,” the Central Emissary agreed. In a circle, each of the Emissaries either voiced their agreement or inclined their heads.

“Good,” Angelica said. “Now we decide who’s going in, and who’s causing the distraction.”

“Lydia will work on setting the explosives,” Derek said, crossing his arms. 

James nodded. “Stiles and Jason will help.”

Stiles was tempted to hit him, but he didn’t.

It wasn’t even about Lydia. Not really. It was more about the pain and desperately wanting to sleep. There was no way anyone was waiting to get this done any longer than necessary, and it was approaching six o’clock in the morning.

“I think three groups of four will be the best,” the Northern Emissary said, speaking up for the first time since Stiles had joined the table. She tapped her chin, thinking. “One to clear the second storey, two to split the first before they can flee.”

“Our ethics say we capture if possible,” Elice, the acting Southern Emissary, put in. “No matter how dearly I wish to see them pay with their lives. If we break with our own laws, they have won as clearly as if we had chosen one of the options they left us.”

Theo nodded and the Central Emissary and Derek echoed his movement.

The Northern Emissary added, “They will be tried appropriately, and sentenced thereof.”

“This Counsel is not yet a thing of the past,” Theo said, smiling at the table, the first real smile Stiles had seen him give. He looked like someone’s proud uncle. Stiles had the urge to make him stay that way; he could see why he was such a powerful leader.

“No Emissary and Second shall go together,” Elice said. “We cannot have any Territory unguarded.” She paused. “I will stay behind, as I cannot name a Second.”

“No one would begrudge you a Second,” the Northern Emissary said softly.

Elice shook her head. “I will not violate the rules of this Counsel.”

“All right,” Angelica said, drawing the attention of the table back to her. “Let us set our teams. One to fight, one to sneak, and one to both fight and lead.”

“Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, I think some of that is real tech, but the rest is pseudoscience written by a lawyer with other degrees in English and trauma education. Like, I have absolutely no scientific legs to stand on, versus all the psychological issues, which are analyzed to death in a file no one will ever, every see for fear of institutionalizing me.
> 
> That said, have your quiz question!
> 
> Which two cast members are married in real life? (Bonus points if you can answer this without looking it up. Super mega bonus points if you can tell me how they met and cite it, because that would be adorable.)  
> Winner: sinequanon!
> 
> So, I've decided I'm only taking one winner (or: however many there are by the time I notice there's one, because while I try to keep up with comments, I do also do other things, sometimes).
> 
> Last chapter's winners: iMOCKusALL and Okaycanyousee. 
> 
> Oh, and follow me on [Tumblr](http://approximatelytrue.tumblr.com), because I think I've figured out how to use it! Finally! (Besides just reposting picspam.)
> 
>  
> 
> _NB: For everyone who was worried the plot would get dropped on its face for the romance, I hope this chapter was good for you. And for everyone who wanted there to be flying hugs and forgiveness, I'm sorry? But not actually._


	18. In Which Stiles Does the Awkward Turtle and Also Things Explode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where the chapters start getting longer? This one's about 2K longer than most. Oh, well. (There are three chapters left which cover 18K, so all of the rest are this long or longer.)
> 
> Completely unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. (And there are probably several.)
> 
> This chapter has a few of the things people have been waiting for! And will make some of you happy, and others pissed! (And some of you will be like, "Oh. Well. Cool, then," because statistically if everyone was either ecstatic or pissed, that would be problematic.)
> 
> Enjoy! Your comments and kudos are amazing, thank you so much!

Once the teams were split, almost equally, it was down to Lydia and the sonic bombs. 

Stiles wasn’t surprised that the three leaders of the squads were Scott and two other Seconds: Angelica and the Central Emissary’s Second, Patricia Taylor. Boyd and Jackson were both with Scott, and Jess was with Angelica. 

After the three squads were set, and ready to leave, James sent Stiles to go and assist Lydia and Jason. 

He went. Really, what was the point of not? This Counsel had already exploded in so many ways, Stiles was going to need to let go of the awkwardness.

It helped that he was so tired he was getting slap-happy. Fewer inhibitions meant less embarrassment. At least, in the present. Future Stiles was probably going to be very unhappy.

Stiles found them in a room adjoining the kitchen, turning pots and pans into explosives. Jason noticed him first.

“Hey,” Jason said, drawing everyone’s attention up. “Everyone,” in this case, being Lydia and Allison. Lydia has dismissed Boyd when he was assigned to go with Scott. “Something happen?”

“Nope,” Stiles said, dropping onto the floor next to Jason and assessing the remaining pots and ingredients. Lydia had been right: the formula wasn’t difficult. Stiles pulled over a few ingredients and started bomb-making. “James sent me to help. All the squads are ready to go and folks are getting antsy.”

“Well, they can wait, now can’t they?” Lydia asked, finishing wrapping packing tape around a pot so that its lid stayed in place. “Or we can just blow the hotel, whichever they prefer.”

Jason snorted. “I did suggest carpet-bombing the warehouse. No one took me seriously,” he said, grabbing for the packing tape.

“That’s because we aren’t terrorists, you nutjob,” Stiles said affectionately, grinning as he mixed chemicals that, with the right catalyst, could actually blow out his eardrums. “And we don’t kill people we don’t have to.”

“It would have been simpler, though,” Jason said, sighing. He looked down at the completed bomb in his hands. “Should we add this to the Anarchist’s Cookbook?”

“No,” Stiles, Lydia, and Allison replied in unison. Stiles flushed, but the girls grinned at one another.

“Where’s Jess?” Jason asked as he grabbed the last pot out of the middle of the circle and started padding it for the chemical mixture.

“She’s on the squad clearing the second storey, with Angelica. She was really happy when James offered her up as muscle,” Stiles answered.

Jason snorted. “I’m sure she was.” He gestured to Lydia and Allison. “I’ve been answering the ladies’ questions about the MD. Care to help?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, shrugging. “If I can. You’ve been there since before I graduated from college.”

“Ass,” Jason breathed. “My fragile ego can’t take your constant harassment.”

“Then give me back my key and stop stealing my movies,” Stiles said evenly, working the catalyst into a shape that made sense, and wouldn’t immediately set off the chemicals.

“Could you two be any more _married_?” Lydia asked, cutting into Stiles and Jason’s banter.

Stiles barked out a laugh and grinned at her before he could think better of it. “If you think we’re bad, get Jason and Jess in a room. There’s marriage and sexual tension you could cut with a slice of bread.”

Jason kicked out at him, but missed. Stiles wasn’t sure why Jason thought kicking was a good idea, what with the chemicals surrounding them. “We’re bad, sure, with the married thing, but there’s no sexual tension. Jess’ been on-again-off-again with James as long as she’s been in the MD.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t stare at her when she decides she doesn’t need to wear pants,” Stiles said, waving a hand.

Jason rolled his eyes. “She has a nice ass. I’m not blind.”

“Yeah, but you stare like a starving man watching his buffet walk away,” Stiles added. “And I know for a fact you don’t need a buffet, you enormous manwhore.”

“Harsh,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. 

“Is everyone at the Midnight Division this ridiculous?” Allison asked, glancing between Jason and Stiles with a look Stiles couldn’t interpret.

“Definitely not,” Stiles answered. “They make us work together because we’re like this. All the sane people get to hang out and be sane.”

“We do get the coolest missions, though,” Jason said.

“Fucking teenage witches,” Stiles said, sighing.

Jason laughed. “Yeah, D.C. has a lot of those. We don’t even have to travel. We could take up teenage witch counseling, if the whole spy thing doesn’t work out.”

“They turned the water at the Washington Monument purple, then green, then orange, and then red,” Stiles said.

“No, it was dark blue, not purple,” Jason said.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You’re fucking colorblind.”

“Says the one who thinks plaid is acceptable clothing.” Jason grinned.

Allison choked on a laugh. “Really? Still?” she asked, grinning at Stiles. He saw a look flicker through her eyes for a moment and thought it was probably the same thought he was having.

They were acting normally. Was that okay. “It’s comfortable, okay?”

“Are there still like seven layers?” Allison asked, finishing her last bomb and sitting back on her hands. 

“More,” Jason said. “They multiply based on how drunk he is, I swear.”

“Lies,” Stiles said. “I strip when I’m drunk.”

“Jess has pictures,” Jason admitted, winking at the girls. “He table-danced once. We put it on the Agency server.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles asked, shooting a look over at Jason as both Lydia and Allison laughed.

“You’ll see,” Jason said, shrugging and grinning.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed. “James really is going to fire me. I’m going to flip burgers.”

“Yeah right,” Jason laughed. “You’re like vampire bait. That alliance is probably about 30% based on how bad Angelica wants to sleep with you.”

Stiles winced. “You noticed?”

“James briefed Jess and I on it,” Jason said.

“Fucking seriously? I didn’t notice until, I don’t know, half an hour ago.” Stiles groaned and rolled his head on his neck, trying to relieve some of the headache pressure. 

“That’s because you’re an oblivious idiot,” Jason agreed.

Stiles finished his bomb and put it in the middle of the circle with the others. He looked up to see Lydia smiling at him. Not a grin, or a laugh at his expense, but a smile.

“You know you’re an asshole, right?” Lydia said, keeping eye contact. 

“Through and through,” Stiles agreed.

“Isaac may stab you with a butter knife, though,” Allison added. “He said he talked to you, and you were a bigger dick than he remembered.”

Jason choked. “Oh, fuck.” He glanced between Allison and Lydia. “You’re Beacon Hills, aren’t you? I should not have told you that thing about the stripper.”

Stiles stared at Jason for a moment. “You did what?”

“It’s a great story!” Jason yelled, holding up his fingers in a cross to fend Stiles off.

“It really is,” Allison agreed. “I’d tell it, too.”

“To total strangers,” Lydia added. 

“I’m never living that down,” Stiles said, shaking his head as he finished his bomb. “Never. It will be on my tombstone.”

Jason, Lydia, and Allison laughed as the last bomb was put into the circle. 

“We’re going to need more people to carry these,” Stiles said, staring at the rows of pots and pans.

“Are you done?” Derek asked, making both Stiles and Jason jump.

As they turned to look at him, Lydia responded, “Yes. We’ll need about five more people to help us set these up at the warehouse.”

Derek nodded and Stiles caught his eye for a moment, before he turned around and walked out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll take care of it.”

Lydia stood and cracked her back, Allison following suit. Jason and Stiles stood more slowly, Jason mirroring Stiles’ actions in a way that meant he was measuring Stiles’ mood.

“That was exactly as awkward as I thought it would be,” Allison said, looking in Stiles’ direction. “At least you’re not alone in being an asshole.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed.

“I can see why you’ve been avoiding us,” Lydia said, giving Stiles a look that was all eyebrows. “You look like you want to dig yourself a hole to die in.”

“Oh, if I could,” Stiles agreed.

“You’re not pissed anymore,” Allison said. “So why does it matter?”

Jason and Lydia snorted in tandem, then looked at one another. That was a team Stiles never wanted to see happen. He wouldn’t survive.

Allison growled. “What do I not know?”

“I was never pissed,” Stiles said. “Well, no, I was. I was really pissed.” He shrugged. “I got over it. That isn’t why I stayed away.”

Lydia nodded. “I know. And it makes sense. It just doesn’t make you pretending we don’t exist any better for certain people.”

Allison looked between Lydia and Stiles. “Seriously, what do I not know?”

“Certain people means Hale, right?” Jason asked, putting a hand out.

“One of them, anyway,” Lydia agreed. “The other one completely ran out of fucks to give well before we even met.”

“So true,” Allison agreed. “I still don’t know something everyone else knows, and if you don’t tell me, I’m going to shoot the lot of you.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “God, I swear Scott’s stupid has rubbed off on you.” Allison made a noise of disagreement, but Lydia continued, looking at Stiles now, “Stiles didn’t leave because we tried to keep him in the dark. It was just a part of a bigger problem.” She was looking fully at Stiles now. “You didn’t stop caring about anyone, though I know you think you did. You cared too much.”

“I figured that out,” Stiles said, shrugging. “It wasn’t enough.”

“To come back, no,” Lydia agreed. “But now you don’t have an excuse. There’s no convenient distance. You have to think about things again.” Stiles stayed silent. “Like how in love with Derek you still are.” Lydia looked him up and down. “You wouldn’t be putting so much effort into dodging him if you weren’t.”

Allison narrowed her eyes. “Wait, seriously?” She glared at Stiles. “You love Derek and you haven’t talked to anyone in twelve years? Do you just enjoy torturing yourself?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Stiles agreed, shoving his hands into his frayed sweatpants pockets. “If I wasn’t thinking about it, it wasn’t a problem.”

“Except in all those relationships you didn’t have,” Jason said, raising his hand. “You call me a manwhore; at least I go in planning for it to be meaningless.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

“If you think Derek’s done any different, you weren’t paying attention,” Allison said, glaring.

“I try not to think about it, actually,” Stiles said. “It worked like a charm until February.” The exhausted, pain part of him was done with this conversation. But. “I know, though. I can feel it. I can always feel it. I just don’t know if I want it.” Another part of Stiles, the one he’d pushed down, that had wanted him to stay in Beacon Hills, wanted him to finish this conversation. 

“Then get your head out of your ass and figure it out,” Lydia said calmly. “I’m pretty sure no one’s leaving until justice has been served and we’ve figured out what to do with the three murderous stooges.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed. “Let’s just get this over with so I can take about a thousand Advil and sleep until Sunday.”

Jason turned to face him, eyes narrowed. “How bad is it?”

“The dehydration didn’t help. It’ll pass,” Stiles answered, waving a hand. “Sooner if we get this over with.”

“You have a headache?” Allison asked. “Why don’t you just get rid of it?”

Stiles gave her a flat look. “Because I can’t anymore.”

“We’ll have to talk about that later,” Lydia said. “Our reinforcements are here.”

A few vampires and fae walked through the doors.

“Come carry things,” Lydia said, gesturing at the bombs. “And for god’s sake, don’t drop them.”

Stiles looked down at himself, then over at Jason. “You know, I think we’ll meet you out there. Wearing real clothes.”

 

Stiles and Jason were set up behind a grove of trees, far enough away from the sonic bombs that the the water-soaked wool they’d pulled from one of the spare closets in the hotel would keep the bombs from doing any real damage to their eardrums. 

Lydia and Allison were a few hundred feet away, having accomplished the same thing. The bombs were all wired to one trigger, which Lydia was holding, waiting on the signal from the hotel that everyone was in place before she pressed it.

“Seriously,” Jason said, shifting a little so that he wasn’t putting all of his weight on his needs. “How bad is your head?”

“Bad,” Stiles answered bluntly. “If this wasn’t so important, I’d have told you all to fuck off and locked the door to our room hours ago.”

“I’ll get you back to the room as soon as we’re back there,” Jason said. “Run interference, that sort of thing.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said. His headaches were common results of trying to saving the day at the eleventh hour, which he’d done more often than he liked with the MD. Jess and Jason had both taken to making sure no one bothered him if he got them. It was a bit of parenting that Stiles didn’t mind. “I don’t know if it’s going to work this time. We’re going to need to get past five separate groups of Emissaries, all wanting to know the details, and James is going to shove me at them.”

“Not a problem,” Jason said, holding up his phone. “I told James that Jess and I would quit if you weren’t allowed to peace out as soon as we get back. He might not seem like he cares, but James is secretly a teddy bear. He gets it.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Dramatic, but thanks.”

A light caught Stiles’ eye. Allison was flashing a mirror at them, the sign for blowing the bombs.

“Here goes nothing,” Stiles said, putting the wool up to his ears. He didn’t hear it when Jason said “oh shit,” but he could certainly read it on his lips. Trying not to drop the cotton, Stiles whipped around to see a werewolf, claws and fangs at the ready, standing behind them, poising to jump.

“Sentry!” Jason yelled as Stiles dropped the wool and pulled his gun out of its holster.

In his peripheral vision, Stiles could see Allison and Lydia trying to catch his attention with the mirror, but he had a more immediate threat. At the top of his lungs, Stiles yelled, “Blow it!” Then he pulled the trigger and braced for impact. Just as the wolf barreled into him, Lydia hit the switch and everything was deafening sound, so painful that Stiles dropped to his knees. He saw Jason do that same next to him where he was fighting off his own wolf sentry. 

Stiles was able to angle his gun to get another shot off into the werewolf and thanked whatever ironic deity had seen fit to have put a clip of silver bullets into Stiles’ sidearm. A set of claws raked its way across his chest before Stiles got off a third shot and the wolf collapsed. He turned and fired two shots into the wolf attacking Jason and it collapsed. 

Sound was gone and Stiles knew he was bleeding heavily. A quick assessment told him that Jason had a deep gash in his side, but that he was still on his feet. He watched Jason pull out his cell phone and start typing into it, mouthing something at him.

He was too tired, it hurt too much, and Stiles let himself pass out, hoping there weren’t any more sentries, or, at the very least, that Allison would see fit to take care of them.

 

When he woke up, Stiles was laying on his back in the dirt, staring up at Jason and Allison, who were both trying to catch his attention. He could hear Lydia yelling in the background, but his attention fixated on a long cut that ran down Allison’s cheek.

“You’re hurt,” he said, narrowing his eyes. 

“You’re awake!” Allison yelled. “You need to stay awake, Stiles. Got that?”

“Sure,” Stiles replied. “Stay awake. Got it.” Allison and Jason went blurry just before Stiles’ vision whited out. It returned quickly, but Stiles didn’t think it was a good sign. “How bad is it?” he asked, his voice more a pant than anything else.

Jason winced. “It could be worse. None of your organs appear to be damaged.”

“Oh, good. You can see my organs,” Stiles said. “Always good news.”

“We’ve packed it the best we can,” Lydia said, stepping into Stiles’ vision, her cell still in her hand. “They can’t get anyone out here for at least thirty minutes. The attack is still going on and people are nervous about leaving the remaining Emissaries alone.”

“Understandable,” Jason said. “Also an utter crock of shit.”

“Agreed,” Allison said, sitting back so that Stiles could only see her in his peripheral vision. “Who did you talk to?”

“Isaac,” Lydia answered. “Derek’s phone went straight to voicemail. Apparently the Emissaries are in a meeting.”

“Seriously?” Jason asked. “Now? Shouldn’t they, I don’t know, be listening to comms and helping their people get out of danger?”

Allison snorted. “You obviously don’t know much about supernatural politics. Showing worry would be the same as saying they didn’t believe their Emissaries were strong enough to lead themselves, which would lead to doubt in the Emissaries themselves. It’s politics at its finest.”

“Are we sure we want to make an agreement with these people?” Jason asked, looking down at Stiles.

Stiles attempted to shrug and immediately regretted it. Through gritted teeth, he got out, “Ask James. I’m sure he’ll give you his own political damn answer.”

“You don’t like him?” Lydia asked.

“No, I like him fine,” Stiles said, closing his eyes. Whatever numbness and adrenaline he’d woken up with was fading. He felt like his chest and stomach had been torn open and were bleeding all over the ground. Because they had. “He just gets over-ambitious. And tactless.”

“And sometimes he forgets other living creatures exist, too,” Jason added. “He respects us because we do our jobs well, but as soon as we go off to do those jobs, his attention switches to what’s next.”

“An opportunist,” Lydia said.

“Definitely that,” Jason agreed.

“Can we talk about something else?” Stiles asked. “Remembering that my boss has absolutely no intention of checking up on us is sort of a downer. How about puppies? Or rainbows?”

“Sure,” Allison said. “Puppies. Jackson really wants to have puppies.” She smiled at Lydia, who scowled.

“He’ll get them by proxy. I have absolutely no intention of creating some ridiculous werewolf-banshee hybrid,” Lydia said stiffly.

Stiles blinked. “Jackson? No one else?”

Allison shrugged. “Scott and I are waiting until Liam’s leadership skills are better and Scott doesn’t have to keep bailing him out every other day. Erica’s husband brought two kids along with him, but they’re human, so they probably don’t qualify as puppies.”

“Boyd and Casey were talking about kids,” Lydia said. “Jackson put them up to it, I’m sure, because they kept trying to drag me into the conversation.”

“Isaac still runs away when he even smells a baby,” Allison said. “And I don’t think Cora even dates.”

“Not a prerequisite,” Jason said. “Dating and sex are two totally different things.”

“If she’s having sex, she’s eating them afterward, because no one’s ever heard that, either,” Lydia said, waving a hand.

“Well,” Stiles said. “That wasn’t really the puppy conversation I had in mind, but I’ll take it. For the record, I was talking about Pinterest tags.”

“Be more specific,” Lydia said. “What about you, Stiles? Do you want kids?”

“Me? I haven’t thought about it,” Stiles said, staring through the trees to what little of the sky wasn’t washed out by the city’s ambient light.

“Not at all?” Allison asked.

“You need to date someone for more than five minutes for kids to happen,” Jason said, grinning down at Stiles, then up to Allison. 

“I date people for more than five minutes,” Stiles argued. “You’re talking about yourself.”

“I’m talking about all three of us,” Jason said. “Jess can’t hold a relationship to save her life. Her inability to stop sleeping with James sort of hinders them.”

Stiles snorted. “Then ask her out. I’m pretty sure that would put a nice wedge between Jess and James’ apparently magnetic genitals.”

“I think you’ve lost too much blood,” Jason said, scowling. 

“Oh, definitely,” Stiles agreed. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Lydia’s phone buzzed, saving Jason from having to respond. She answered, “You had better have good news.”

Allison raised her eyebrows. “Who?” she asked.

“Not good enough,” Lydia said, them mouthed “Isaac” at Allison. “Just get up and leave, stop worrying about the politics. We need a doctor yesterday.” She paused, listening. “Liam’s a third-year resident, he’ll be fine. Just get the hell out here. Steal one of the identical cars.”

“They’d have to count them to notice,” Stiles said, eyes drifting back to the tree canopy. “I know you said not to, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out again.”

“Fuck,” Jason said, reaching out to slap Stiles in the cheek in a waking motion. “Do not do that. You need to stay awake to keep your resting heart beat high enough to keep up with your bleeding.”

“Be here,” Lydia said. “Now. I know you’re mad, but you don’t want Stiles to bleed out in this ridiculous forest.”

“Stiles doesn’t want that, either,” Stiles said, his eyes drifting shut. “I’m not sure if I have a choice, though. That sort of seems to be on you guys. Sorry.”

“Hey!” Jason yelled, his face only inches away from Stiles’. “You stay awake or blood loss is going to be the least of your problems. I’ll walk around telling people about Greg the Leg, see if I don’t.”

“I’m pretty sure if I die, I don’t have to worry about it,” Stiles said, trying to keep himself awake. “Just as long as you don’t put it on my gravestone.”

“Who’s Greg the Leg?” Allison asked. She’d faded completely from Stiles’ vision, blacked out as his vision tunneled. 

“The worst one night stand that ever happened,” Stiles answered, his words coming out on a breath, more softly than he’d intended. “Seriously. It can never be unseen.”

“You slept with him anyway,” Jason said, slapping Stiles’ cheek again, his voice louder than it had been.

“Pity,” Stiles said. He’d meant to say more, but he couldn’t get it out. “Sorry.”

 

When Stiles woke up the second time, he was in the back of an ambulance, having just gotten adrenaline to the heart. At least, that’s what Stiles had assumed had happened, if the enormous needle and EMT holding AED pads were any indication.

“Ouch,” he groaned.

“He’s awake,” an unfamiliar voice said before another EMT entered Stiles’ vision. He’d put money on that guy being the other voice.

“What happened?” Stiles asked, taking care to form the words properly.

The EMT putting the pads away answered, “You went into cardiac arrest. We’ll be at the hospital shortly and the ED can run some more tests.”

“Surgery?” 

“Probably,” the EMT said, giving Stiles a shrug. “Just be grateful you’re alive.”

Stiles snorted. “Don’t worry. Someone almost dies every time. I’m used to it. It’s when someone really does die that’s the real kicker.”

The EMT gave him a look, but turned away.

“Is anyone else in here?” Stiles asked.

The EMT shook his head. “You started arresting as we got you into the truck. We had to shut the doors and get to work. I’m sure someone will come to the hospital.”

“Sure,” Stiles agreed.

Like the EMT had predicted, Stiles was assessed and run into surgery almost as soon as he’d entered the Presbyterian Hospital’s ED.

 

The third time Stiles woke up, it was to a tube down his throat and a completely white-washed room. A nurse came to respond to the blips in his readings that meant he was awake and then summoned the doctor.

A man walked into the room, not too much older than Stiles, holding a tablet. “Mr. Stilinski?” he asked.

Stiles nodded. It was that or a thumb’s up.

“I’m going to take the tube out of your throat now,” the doctor said. “If you could cough while it do it, it might make the sensation more tolerable.”

Stiles did as he was told and kept right on coughing after the doctor had dropped the tube in a medical waste bucket.

“Now, Mr. Stilinski, do you know where you are?” the doctor asked, flicking his tablet.

“The hospital,” Stiles answered. “I don’t know which one.”

“This is the Greater Chicago Presbyterian Hospital,” the doctor said. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I got my chest and stomach torn open,” Stiles said, glancing down. He could see the outline of bandages underneath his hospital gown. “Then my heart stopped.”

The doctor nodded. “That’s correct. You’ve been unconscious for the last seventeen hours, six of which were spent in surgery. There was a lot of damage, but we were able to repair it completely. You should heal with no side effects to your life or lifestyle.”

“Cool,” Stiles said. “When do I get out of here?”

“At least a week, Mr. Stilinski. We need to monitor your heart’s healing after such a major cardiac episode, and I would like to be able to check on your internal sutures for at least that long to make sure that they are holding,” the doctor answered. 

“Can I have my phone?” Stiles asked, looking around the room.

The doctor walked to a set of drawers off to Stiles’ left and pulled out a plastic bag. Stiles recognized his wallet -- probably too bloody to salvage -- his watch, and his phone. “Here,” the doctor said, handing it to him.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, holding up the bag and nodding at the doctor.

“Do you have any questions?” the doctor asked.

“I don’t think so.” Stiles considered. “No, not really.”

“I’ll send a nurse in to help you finish your paperwork,” the doctor said, heading for the door.

“Thanks,” Stiles said. He pulled his cell out of the bag and tried to power it up. Nothing. It was either out of battery or just straight-up dead. “Perfect.”

The same nurse who had greeted Stiles after he had woken walked back into the room, carrying her own tablet. “Mr. Stilinski?” she asked. “I need to go through a few details with you.”

“My insurance is in my wallet,” Stiles said, holding up the crusty, sticky leather.

“Oh, no, your employer was here with that information. I need a few more personal details,” the nurse said, sitting down on the stool next to Stiles’ bed.

“Sure,” Stiles said, dropping the wallet next to his phone. “Can I get a phone charger when you’re done? I’d like to know if this is just dead, or actually really, really dead.”

The nurse smiled. “Of course.” She swiped a finger across the tablet. “First, do you have a medical proxy? We had to temporarily declare you a ward of the state, as we could find no proxy associated with your social security number.”

Stiles shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“You should appoint one,” the nurse said, then moved on. “Do you have next of kin? We were unable to find anyone to stand in until you could appoint a medical proxy.”

“Nope,” Stiles said. “Both of my parents were only children of only children. I might have some second cousins I’ve never met somewhere, but I don’t think they count.”

The nurse gave him a short look Stiles recognized as pity, but she cut it off before he could feel offended. “Do you have a family history of heart disease?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said. “My dad’s dad died of dementia, so he probably didn’t have it, but my mom, dad, and maternal grandparents all died young. My dad’s dad disappeared when he was a kid.”

Pursing her lips, the nurse continued, “Have you ever been checked for any cardiopulmonary disorders?”

“No,” Stiles answered.

“You’re going to need to be, then, with the lack of medical history,” the nurse said, giving Stiles a curt nod.

“I figured,” he answered.

“Is there anyone who can take care of you when you’re discharged from the hospital? You’ll be mainly bedridden for at least a month, so we can’t legally discharge you without a declared caretaker.” She left out that those were usually the medical proxies or family.

Stiles shrugged. “I’ll figure it out. I’m stuck here for a week anyway, right? It’ll get sorted before then.”

“All right,” the nurse agreed. “Finally, is there anyone with whom we can share your medical records?”

“My primary care physician for sure,” Stiles said. “My employer.” He paused. “That’s all.”

“Thank you,” the nurse said, standing. “I’ll bring you the medical proxy paperwork, as well as the caretaker forms. I recommend that you complete them both as soon as possible.”

Stiles nodded. “I’ll try.”

The nurse nodded and walked out the door.

“Well, that sucked,” Stiles said to the empty room. “Way to remind me I’m alone in the world, hospital people.”

The nurse returned about fifteen minutes later and plugged in a charger for Stiles’ phone. He set it to charging as she left and hoped that it hadn’t bit the dust. After about twelve minutes, Stiles heard the tone that meant the phone was turning itself on, having charged enough to finish its boot processes and survive off the charger.

Stiles kept it charging, but picked it up to check his messages. He had four voicemails and fifteen text messages. All four voicemails were from James and the talk-to-text previews had them all saying the same thing: call when you’re able. Stiles flipped to his texts. Three of them were from James again, repeating the same thing. The rest were a series of messages in his group chat with Jason and Jess.

 **Jason Curtis (09:37, 14 April 2028)**  
We just put Stiles in the ambulance, where are you?

 **Jessica Courtney (10:13, 14 April 2028)**  
Sorry I had to debrief everyone and their cousin is Stiles okay

 **Jason Curtis (10:15, 14 April 2028)**  
No. His heart stopped on his way into the ambulance. They wouldn’t let anyone ride along.

 **Jessica Courtney (10:16, 14 April 2028)**  
Shit are you headed to the hospital

 **Jason Curtis (10:17, 14 April 2028)**  
As soon as I know which one. James hasn’t even gotten a call yet.

 **Jessica Courtney (10:18, 14 April 2028)**  
Its only been half an hour theyll tell us when they know

 **Jason Curtis (10:18, 14 April 2028)**  
Yeah, sure.

 **Jason Curtis (15:53, 14 April 2028)**  
Stiles is at Greater Chicago Presbyterian. James told me he took care of the identification and insurance, but that only Stiles’ medical proxy and family can visit.

 **Jessica Courtney (15:57, 14 April 2028)**  
Whos his proxy

 **Jason Curtis (15:58, 14 April 2028)**  
I have no idea. Neither does James.

 **Jessica Courtney (16:01, 14 April 2028)**  
Im done here Ill meet you back at your room

 **Jason Curtis (16:01, 14 April 2028)**  
See you in 5.

Stiles stared at the messages for a few minutes. Only his proxy and family were allowed to visit? What archaic bullshit was that? Maybe it was just because he’d been in surgery. Stiles looked at the time on his clock and winced. 01:17, 15 April 2028. He wasn’t having visitors anytime soon.

He shot off a text to the group message.

 **Outgoing (01:17, 15 April 2028)**  
They said I’ll be fine. I don’t have a medical proxy. Which one of you wants to be it? I have the paperwork. I’ll have it nullified later, I just need to know what the fuck’s going on.

Stiles clicked off the screen of his phone and set it on the rolling table next to his bed. He wanted to plan, to think, to get a hold of someone to get him out of the hospital and up to speed.

Instead, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, interaction! And why yes, I am allergic to cliffhangers. I just don't have a melodramatic bone in my body. (Cue hysterical laughter.)
> 
> This chapter's trivia question: (Teen Wolf spoilers) The filming of what movie necessitated that Dylan O'Brien take a step back from Teen Wolf? (But not leave, because he's a fucking trooper.) (In other words, what movie was filming that he was in that was shooting at the same time as Teen Wolf 6A?)  
> Winners! Priss_Kimio and CreativeCreature: 6A started filming 2/22/16 and The Death Cure started filming 3/14/16.  
> Congrats to last chapter's winner, sinequanon!


	19. In Which Stiles is Literally Incapable of Running Away from Anything Awkward (Poor Fool)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after last chapter, there is almost no action in this. It's Conversation and Stuff. Of course, there are two chapters left, and while I could TOTALLY manage to make the characters talk for two more chapters straight (you've seen me do it), I don't. So: you haven't even read the chapter yet, and there's a cliffhanger.
> 
> 20 will be up Tuesday, and the end of days, 21, will be up Thursday, as well as the first side story. The second side story will be up (next) Sunday, and then I'll just post as I finished things (or feel like it). Prompt winners' prompts will go up whenever I write them (or, if they're related to Stuck on Repeat, in the usual posting manner).
> 
> Um, enjoy this. I think it's what folks have been waiting for. At least, some of it.

Stiles was woken by a nurse taking his vitals. When he looked around, he could see light coming in through his curtains and his phone blinking new messages on the rolling table that no one had thought to move.

He picked it up to an insane number of notifications. James had left him another voice message, but the rest were text messages. He listened to James’ voicemail first. It was timestamped “08:59, 15 April, 2028.”

“Stilinski,” James’ voice began. “Jason informed me that you were awake. Please give me an update on your health as soon as you’re able. I’m working on getting us visitation privileges for the afternoon. Because you’re still in critical care, the hospital is limiting visitors to family and legal proxy. Hopefully we can fix that. Let me know when you receive this.”

Stiles deleted the message and pressed the button to return James’ call. He answered almost immediately.

“Stilinski. How are you?”

Stiles took a moment to wonder at what had seemed like genuine concern in James’ voice. “They said I’ll make a full recovery, no lasting damage,” he answered. “I lost a lot of blood and they have to monitor my heart in case the arrest tore something, but otherwise I’m just here to reassure the doctors I won’t pull a stitch.”

“Good,” James said. “I’ve made some progress with visitation. The hospital has said that if you stay in stable condition, they’ll allow small groups of visitors tomorrow.”

“Swell,” Stiles said, the fatigue leaking into his voice. “I turned in the paperwork making Jason my medical proxy. He should get notified in the next hour or so.”

“I’ll count on him to collect a full report,” James said. “He’s already reported on what happened in the woods, as far as he recollects.”

“There were scouts, we got jumped, I got clawed. I was able to shoot both of the attacking werewolves. I don’t know anything after that.”

“Jason says there wasn’t anything after that. He couldn’t hear, but the two girls from the Beacon Hills pack went to join you and helped pack your chest. Jason said you were awake for a few minutes, but passed out again,” Jason said, his voice tight.

“I sort of remember that,” Stiles agreed. “Something about puppies. I woke up in the ambulance, too, after they got my heart beating. I was awake until they put me under for surgery and then I pulled a Rip Van Winkle.”

Jason snorted. “Humorous.” He coughed. “I’m sure you have other messages waiting. I’ll speak with you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Stiles agreed before the line went dead.

He checked the time on his phone. 18:23, 15 April 2028. He’d slept another seventeen hours.

“Fuck,” Stiles muttered, pulling up his text messages. He had a slew of messages in his group chat, as well as a large number of messages from numbers that weren’t in his address book. He opened his chat with Jason and Jess first.

 **Jason Curtis (05:14, 15 April 2028)**  
I’m the better choice. Jess would just cry.

 **Jessica Courtney (07:14, 15 April 2028)**  
Id get all justly enraged but hes right I would totally just cry all over you

 **Jessica Courtney (07:15, 15 April 2028)**  
Not that you wont be okay but because I thought you might not be and that sucked

 **Jessica Courtney (07:15, 15 April 2028)**  
Jsyk

 **Jason Curtis (08:23, 15 April 2028)**  
I’m sure you’re still asleep, but we’ll be there as soon as we can. You know that.

 **Jessica Courtney (08:37, 15 April 2028)**  
What teams are for

 **Jason Curtis (10:14, 15 April 2028)**  
Just so you don’t worry, I’ve taken care of all our reporting, so no one’s demanding your presence enough to charge into your hospital room. The Central Emissary almost got there, though.

 **Jessica Courtney (14:57, 15 April 2028)**  
Dont be pissed but I gave a couple people your number they were concerned

 **Jason Curtis (15:03, 15 April 2028)**  
She means she gave everyone who asked your phone number before I could stop her. 

**Jessica Courtney (15:04, 15 April 2028)**  
Sorry not sorry

 **Jessica Courtney (17:42, 15 April 2028)**  
If you dont text back soon Im breaking in I swear to god

 **Jason Curtis (17:51, 15 April 2028)**  
I’ll help.

Stiles stared at his phone. It was definitely nice, having people who cared.

 **Outgoing (18:27, 15 April 2028)**  
Please don’t break in. They’ll never let me have visitors if you do. Jason, you’re my medical proxy, you should get the papers soon. Then you don’t have to break in. Sorry, Jess.

The response was almost immediate. 

**Jessica Courtney (18:28, 15 April 2028)**  
Oh thank jesus youre okay already on our way over Jason got the papers like ten minutes ago

 **Jessica Courtney (18:29, 15 April 2028)**  
Jason says well be there in ten minutes probably a few more to actually get up there

 **Jessica Courtney (18:30, 15 April 2028)**  
I know I cant see you but Ill be waiting and offering moral support

Stiles grinned as he tapped out of the group chat and back into the main window. He clicked through the messages, recognizing a few of the area codes. 202 was DC, so those were probably members of the den. 512 was Austin, Texas, so those were probably the Southern Emissaries. One of the messages was distinctly Jorge, so Stiles saved the number.

Most of the messages were variations of “Get well soon,” though more classily written.

Then there were the 707 area codes. Beacon Hills was in the 707 area code.

Stiles clicked through them slowly.

 **707-555-1781 (14:02, 15 April 2028)**  
If you ever have a heart attack in front of me again I will rip out your spleen. Don’t doubt me.

Definitely Lydia. Stiles saved the number and sent back a quick, 

**Outgoing (18:32, 15 April 2028)**  
Actually, I read my chart, they already took that out. My appendix is just as useless, though. You can probably have that.

The next message was less illuminating.

 **707-555-0297 (14:47, 15 April 2028)**  
Don’t die, you asshole.

Stiles wanted to assume it was Allison, but really, it could have been almost anyone. Stiles really was an asshole, after all.

 **707-555-3299 (14:51, 15 April 2028)**  
If this is a ploy to get everyone to forget to be pissed at you, it’s a damn good one. 

Again, anyone. Stiles clicked on to the next.

 **707-555-6743 (15:16, 15 April 2028)**  
Dude. Of course the next time I see you, you get yourself torn to shreds. It’s like we’ve gotten stuck on some weird repeat loop.

Scott. Stiles saved the number, then replied, 

**Outgoing (18:37, 15 April 2028)**  
I don’t think we’re so much stuck on repeat as we are trading places. I’m pretty sure you’re the one who’s supposed to have gotten his stomach ripped open, and I’m the one who should be making ironic jokes about lycanthropy.

 **707-555-7333 (16:12, 15 April 2028)**  
I hope you’re all right.

 **707-555-9715 (16:29, 15 April 2028)**  
If you die before I get to tear you a new one, I’m getting Lydia to bring you back just so I can kill you all over again.

If that wasn’t Jackson, Stiles was willing to eat his hat. He’d have to buy one, but he’d do it. He saved the number as “Jackson Whittemore (?)”.

 **707-555-1200 (17:35, 15 April 2028)**  
Your boss is bitching about how you don’t have any family or a medical proxy, so no one can talk to. I’m sure that sucks. Hopefully one of your stooges gets in there soon.

Stiles added that one as “Erica Reyes (?)”. That was the end of the messages. The only numbers Stiles had ever dialed enough to memorize were Scott’s house phone, when he’d had it, his own house phone, and Derek’s cell. It was useful to have a werewolf’s number memorized when you had a penchant for getting kidnapped or mauled without warning. It was also useful to be able to call your boyfriend, even when your phone was dead.

Derek’s number hadn’t shown up. Maybe it had changed, but Stiles doubted it. Either Derek was avoiding Stiles as much as Stiles was avoiding Derek, or Derek was still pissed, or hurt, or something, and messaging Stiles just wasn’t on his to-do list.

That hurt more than Stiles wanted to admit. Not more than he’d expected, not really, but more than he wanted to handle.

Stiles’ phone chimed again a few seconds later, two texts appearing almost simultaneously.

 **Jason Curtis (18:43, 15 April 2028)**  
I’m on my way up. Does this nurse ever blink?

 **Lydia Martin (18:43, 15 April 2028)**  
You might think you’re funny, but you’re not. You almost died. Don’t be a dick about it.

Stiles clicked the screen off when there was a knock on his door. A few moments later, there was his usual nurse, followed closely by Jason.

“Jesus Christ,” Jason said.

“He needs to be out by eight o’clock,” the nurse said, then left, completely ignoring Jason’s heretical invective. 

Jason pulled up the stool next to the bed and sat down. “Jesus Christ,” he repeated. “You look like someone took a sledgehammer to your head.”

“Aw, shucks, tell me more,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. 

“Sorry,” Jason said, waving a hand. “I’m sure you feel like shit.”

“Feel and look, apparently,” Stiles agreed.

“Well, I’ve got good news, neutral news, and news that could be good or bad, based on how you take it. Which do you want first?” Jason asked.

Stiles shrugged. “Good, neutral, bizarre.”

“Cool,” Jason agreed. “We won the attack, all of the rogue forces are being held under guard awaiting trial. Apparently they were trying to unseat the Counsel, big surprise. The neutral news: the two werewolves you shot died before the silver could get out of their systems. On the bright side, you saved my life, because I couldn’t get my gun out. It jammed in the holster.”

“Hey, at least my pain has meaning,” Stiles said, grinning. “Now the bizarre.”

“I’m pretty sure your old back is stalking Jess and me,” Jason said, raising his eyebrows. “We keep finding them lurking around corners.”

Stiles snorted, then said, “It’s a learned habit. Back when we’d just met, Derek used to turn up in my bedroom and scare the shit out of me. Usually to make me do some sort of research in the middle of the night, but still. Lurking and stalking is probably the Beacon Hills motto at this point.”

“About Derek,” Jason said, giving Stiles his “I’m going to try to give you bad news in a way that means you’ll thank me afterward” smile. “He startled Jess, and she may have screamed at him. She may also have been massively sleep deprived. She won’t tell me what she said, but based on the way we’re being stalked and your ex keeps staring at her, it probably wasn’t anything you wanted her to say.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed. “That’s just--fuck.” He settled back into his pillows. “Is it too late to die? I mean, these wounds could have been fatal. You could inject me with potassium, no one will ever know it wasn’t a natural heart attack.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “I think you’re just being an idiot now, so you know. Having spent almost two straight days in meetings and discussions where Derek was present, and annoyingly competent, I’m pretty sure you two could just sit down and figure your shit out without having to set yourselves on fire.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles said. “That probably wasn’t ever the issue. I just buried the issue under embarrassment and avoidance. I’m good at that.”

“The issue being that everything that happens keeps reminding you of Beacon Hills, and how you don’t regret leaving but do regret not keeping in touch, and how you’re still stupidly in love with your ex?” Jason guessed.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles griped, “Sometimes I forget it’s your job to read people like billboards. It’s annoying as all get-out.”

“I know,” Jason said. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Stiles said, taking a deep breath. “I just wish I knew how speaking with him would go, you know? My spark has abandoned that meeting altogether. I think it’s fucking with me.”

“I’m pretty sure talking about part of yourself in the third person is a sign of schizophrenia,” Jason said. 

“Nah, more dissociative identity disorder.” Stiles gave Jason a crooked grin.

“Well, you’ll get visitors tomorrow. If Lydia has anything to say about it, you’re going to get your confrontation by force. I quote, ‘If I have to deal with any more of their avoidance bullshit, I’ll find a silver cage and lock them in it. Let them fight or fuck it out.’ She’s a scary chick,” Jason said, shaking his head.

“Don’t ever let her know you called her a chick,” Stiles said. “You’d be next.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

 

Stiles had fallen asleep before Jason left, and when he woke, morning light was streaming in through his curtains. A quick check of his phone confirmed it: 09:16, 16 April 2028.

He buzzed for the nurse and endured being helped into the bathroom, then asked for breakfast. The nurse brought him pudding. Stiles didn’t argue.

“When are visiting hours?” he asked as she tidied up the sheets she’d stripped from the bed while Stiles had been sitting in the bathroom cursing his life.

“Eleven to eight,” she said, “for regular patients. Up here, noon to five, and only family and proxies can visit outside those hours.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Expecting company?”

“The doctor told my boss he’d let me have visitors if I stayed far enough away from dead,” Stiles said. “It might be nice to hear what’s been happening.”

The nurse stared at him. “Just don’t reinjure yourself.”

Stiles smiled. “I won’t.”

There were a few messages on Stiles’ phone, so he grabbed it lazily and clicked it open. Jess and Jason had argued about whether or not Jess was going to wind up sleeping with James before they left, and Stiles had received a few more random “get well” texts.

Plus one. Derek’s number hadn’t changed, after all. Stiles knew it wouldn’t have. It was like a blinking sign that read, “You’ve known exactly how to speak to him all along. You just chose not to.”

Stiles clicked the text open.

 **917-555-4243 (23:42, 15 April 2028)**  
Lydia says we need to talk.

Rolling his eyes as he typed Derek’s name in with the number, Stiles considered his response. He wanted to antagonize. Say something like, “So glad you were worried,” or “When did she become Alpha?” He also knew it was the wrong thing to do. He was an adult. He’d grown out of his reflexive need to piss Derek off. 

Hell, he’d grown out of that before he’d even known what the hell he and Derek were doing, when they were just circling and staring when they thought the other wasn’t looking.

 **Outgoing (09:44, 16 April 2028)**  
She told me that, too.

Stiles clicked his screen off before he could add anything else, or stare at the five words he’d used instead of the thousands he was thinking. He almost ignored it when his phone vibrated again, but responsibility made him pick it up. The message was from James. 

**James Hunter (09:46, 16 April 2028)**  
The doctor has approved visitation. Jason is on his way over now with your toiletries and some sleep clothes. They said he could come in early if he helped you around your room as needed. Let him help you.

James’ messages rarely invited a reply, but Stiles sent one anyway.

 **Outgoing (09:47, 16 April 2028)**  
Thanks.

He didn’t receive a reply, but he hadn’t been expecting one.

Jason showed up a little after ten, carrying Stiles’ toiletry kit and a garbage bag and Stiles assumed was his pajamas. “I come bearing gifts,” Jason announced. Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“I see that. My pajamas are garbage?”

“Absolutely,” Jason said, upending the garbage bag at the foot of Stiles’ bed. “None of them are real pajamas. They’re just old clothes that got relegated to hiding beneath the bedclothes.”

“Whatever,” Stiles said. “They work for me.”

Jason pulled Stiles’ CIA sweatpants and an oversized Berkeley T-shirt out of the pile and threw them at Stiles. He rummaged for a pair of clean briefs and threw those at Stiles, too. “Apparently I have to help you dress, so let’s get to it. No one wants visitors in a hospital gown.”

It took them forty-five minutes of trying to get Stiles undressed and then dressed without Jason seeing anything he didn’t want to see -- “Christ, Jason, you’ve seen it before!” “Not outside of the locker room, I haven’t!” -- and cutting out time every time Stiles almost fell over.

When Stiles finally made it back to bed, he was exhausted. Comfortable, but exhausted.

“I’m napping,” he announced, rolling his head in Jason’s direction.

Jason shrugged. “I’ll just put your clothes away and throw the hospital ones in the bin.” He grinned. “Don’t worry. I brought plenty of paperwork to do.

Stiles laughed as he drifted off.

When he woke again, there were soft voices whispering on the other side of the room. It took Stiles a moment to orient himself before he recognized the voices as belonging to Jess and Jason.

“Hey,” Stiles said, pushing himself up against his pillows, then using the bed controls to sit up. “How long was I out?”

“It’s a little after three,” Jason said.

Stiles groaned. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Jason has pictures of your intestines,” Jess said. “You’re allowed to sleep whenever you want.”

“You took pictures?” Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow at Jason.

“Shock. Before I figured out I should stop staring and help, my brain thought the insides of your body were the most interesting things it’d ever seen.” Jason shrugged. “I’ll send them to you.”

“Cool,” Stiles agreed. He thought he heard Jess cough “boys,” but was distracted by James leading a few other people into his room.

“I heard you speaking,” James said, moving to lean against the wall. Theo and Angelica followed him into the room.

“I hope that you are healing appropriately,” Theo said, his voice as calm as it had been before they’d left D.C. 

“The doctors say that I am,” Stiles said, “so I suppose that I am.”

“Your spark ought to heal you more quickly than the average human,” Theo added, nodding slowly.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “It usually does.”

Angelica sat down in the stool next to Stiles’ bed and gave him a soft smile. Stiles remembered that she was probably attracted to him. Awkward. “I do hope you are not just putting us on, Stiles. We would be quite devastated if you were not to recover.”

“Nope,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “The doctor says I’ll be back to 100% if I take it easy and complete the PT as ordered.”

“That is very good to hear,” Angelica said, smiling.

The nurse appeared in the doorway. “I said no more than three visitors at once.” She stared at James, then Angelica.

Apparently, she even intimidated them.

“We have seen your recovery for ourselves,” Theo said, gesturing for Angelica to rise. “That is very reassuring. We hope that you will rely on us for anything that you might need.”

“Ah, yeah,” Stiles replied. “Thanks.”

James raised an eyebrow at Stiles before he followed the two vampires out of the room.

Only moments after they’d left, Stiles heard Lydia’s voice in the hallway.

“Oh, he can handle it, he’s handled worse,” she said.

The nurse entered the room at the heels of Lydia, Scott, and Allison, her face looking almost purple. “I said _three_ ,” the nurse repeated.

“And I said no,” Lydia replied calmly. “We’ll call for you if we need you.” She made a shooing motion.

The nurse shooed. Stiles was going to have to create a hospital hierarchy chart.

Lydia turned her eyes on Stiles, looking him up and down. “Move the sheets,” she said, waving a hand. Stiles watched Scott and Allison exchange a smile behind her. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Stiles said, pulling himself upright enough to remove the sheets. He let himself fall back against the pillows when he was done. “You’re going to have to put them back, though.”

“Fine,” Lydia said, still looking Stiles up and down. Finally, she said, “It’ll do,” and moved to replace Stiles’ blankets. “The pajamas won’t, but you don’t feel like you’re about to die, so we win some, we lose some.”

Jason snorted. “I told you the pajamas were ridiculous.”

“They’re not even real pajamas,” Lydia said. “They’re clothes you’ve worn too many times but don’t want to throw out.”

Stiles rolled his eyes as Jason laughed more loudly. “I like them. I’m wearing them. Ergo, your opinion is invalid.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “My opinion is never invalid.”

Scott jumped in before Stiles could accidentally piss off Lydia any further. “Hey, man,” he said, moving up to take the stool Angelica had vacated. “I’m glad you didn’t die before I could say hello.”

Stiles snorted. “That would have been pretty ironic, wouldn’t it?” he asked.

“No,” Allison answered, moving to stand behind Scott. “It wouldn’t be ironic. It would cement your status as reigning asshole for all of time.” She paused. “You asshole.”

Scott gave Stiles a grin. “Have you met my wife? She thinks you’re an asshole.”

“Why no,” Stiles said, pretending to look Allison up and down. “I don’t believe I have. An asshole, you say?”

Allison rolled her eyes. “I take it back. You’re both the reigning assholes. Stiles can be King Asshole, and you can be Queen,” she said, patting Scott on the head as she said “Queen.”

Stiles laughed. “At least someone recognizes my manliness.”

“Oh, no,” Allison corrected. “Scott is way manlier than you. You need to figure out how to grow muscles before anyone should call you manly. You’re King because you’re slightly more of an asshole than Scott is. It’s just degrees of assholish merit.”

Stiles could see Jason and Jess leaning on one another laughing and rolled his eyes. “I had one thing, Allison. One thing.”

“Mmhm,” Lydia said, checking her nails. “Speaking of one thing.”

“Sorry, dude,” Scott said, standing up. “Lydia is god when it comes to this stuff. No one argues with her.”

“Especially when we all think she’s right,” Allison added, leaning against Scott.

Jess and Jason exchanged a look.

“Oh, would you look at the time?” Jess said, looking at her wrist. “I think we have a thing.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Right. The thing. Timed by your invisible watch.”

Jess smacked him on the back of the head. “Yeah. That thing.” She shoved Jason out of the room.

Allison followed when Lydia turned to march out, but Scott gave Stiles a wincing look. “Seriously, Lydia’s right, but I do not envy you the next hour.”

“She gave it a time limit?” Stiles asked.

“Oh, yeah. In an hour, she’s coming in and finishing anything you guys haven’t. Fair warning.” Scott grimaced again, then shot out of the room.

Stiles let his head fall back against his pillow as his eyes fell shut. He only opened them when he heard the door click shut. When he did, he saw Derek leaning against the door, crossing his arms. He was glad he’d put the back of his bed up far enough to mimic sitting. This wasn’t going to be a conversation he wanted to have lying down.

“Hey,” he said. It was the most intelligent thing his brain could come up with. Stiles was proud he’d managed anything at all.

Then Derek just sighed and looked down. Not promising. “Stiles,” Derek said, not quite a greeting, but not really anything else, either.

“Apparently we have a cutoff time,” Stiles continued.

Stiles heard Derek huff. “So I’ve been told.”

“How’ve you been?” Stiles asked, after a pause longer than had been comfortable.

Derek straightened against the door, meeting Stiles’ eyes. “Fine,” he answered.

“Anything interesting happen?” Stiles asked. He was pretty sure he was wearing Derek’s patience thin, but there was no good way to start a conversation about walking away from someone you were still in love with and then pretending they didn’t exist for twelve years. There definitely wasn’t a Hallmark platitude for it yet. If he survived this with his sanity in tact, Stiles would write one for them. This sort of torture should really only happen once.

“Someone just got murdered at a peace summit,” Derek replied, his jaw twitching.

“Oh, right,” Stiles said. He sat through another long pause before he finally got out, “This is insanely awkward, will you at least sit down?” He gestured to a stiffly padded chair at the other end of the room. It was high enough that Stiles could keep eye contact, but far enough away that he could probably avoid doing anything that would rip his stitches. 

Unfortunately, Derek took the chair and moved it around to the side of Stiles’ bed. It was sort of like being trapped between a rock and a mound of pillows.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, adjusting himself so that he could look at Derek comfortably, and he really let himself look. Derek had filled out in all the places he’d been only whip-tight muscle, where stress had kept him light. He held himself less rigidly, like he wasn’t worried about any imminent attack, or like he could rely on someone else to handle it. He seemed comfortable in his own skin.

At the same time, he was still struggling for words. Stiles could see it in the way he was breathing, how he would start to breathe to speak, then stop himself, like whatever he’d been planning on saying had gotten stuck somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. It was a nervousness that Stiles recognized. Derek would speak when he was ready, and no sooner.

Unfortunately, Stiles was no longer willing to sit around waiting for that to happen. They had a time limit, and Stiles hadn’t had to use his Derek-specific patience in years. It was rusty. “So. Feelings. We should talk about them before Lydia does it for us.” He sighed. “Though she might do a better job, let’s be honest.”

Derek let out a long breath, but he didn’t tense. “You left. You didn’t come back. It sucked. Is that what you’re looking for?” he asked.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m not _looking_ for anything, Derek. I’m not sorry I left. It was the right thing for me.” He paused. “I am sorry I didn’t call. That wasn’t right for anyone.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Derek asked, settling himself further into his chair.

“I don’t know, pride? Fear? Anger? Pick one, they’re all true,” Stiles answered. “I was pissed at you, and I was afraid that hearing your voice would drag me back under, and once I’d waited too long, I just couldn’t force myself to do it.” He shrugged. “So I decided it was too late.”

Derek growled softly. “You were pissed at me. Fine. You could have kept in touch with Scott or Lydia. They were devastated when they realized you weren’t coming back.”

“No, I really couldn’t have,” Stiles said. “I wasn’t pissed at just you. That was a collective ‘you’ I meant. You treated me like I was broken, and then you tried to shut me out. That hurt. A lot. I needed to do what was right for me, and that meant breaking from everyone. The pack itself.”

“That’s what pack is _for_ , Stiles,” Derek snapped. He crossed his arms, and Stiles watched his shoulders tense. “When you’re hurt, we take care of you. No matter what. You betrayed that.”

“And you betrayed _me_ ,” Stiles said through his teeth, feeling his muscles tighten without his permission. “What did you think was going to happen? Beacon Hills was slowly killing me, always knowing that something new and worse was coming, and then you decided I wasn’t allowed to know you were hurt. You decided that for me. That isn’t how pack works.”

“We were protecting you,” Derek said, eyes washed almost gray in the afternoon light.

“Bullshit,” Stiles said. “There’s a difference between protecting someone and cutting them out. If it had worked, you’d just have kept doing it, until I only knew half of what was going on and everyone was being forced to keep secrets.” Derek opened his mouth, but Stiles cut him off. “Don’t even fucking deny it, Derek. You know you would have. You’d have had the best intentions, but it would have ended the same way. If it had gone on longer, it just would have been worse.” He paused. “You say I left the pack. You’re right. I did. But you made that first cut. It didn’t matter how much I loved you if I couldn’t trust you.”

Derek was silent, but Stiles kept eye contact, waiting. Finally, “I know. It was idiotic.”

“But you just wanted to protect me,” Stiles finished. “I know that, too. You can’t protect people from the world, Derek, no matter how hard you try. The world just keeps on happening around us. I needed a new one.”

“I do understand,” Derek said tiredly, and Stiles flicked his eyes to where Derek and laced his fingers together, then back to his face. “It took a while, but I got there. I understand why you left. Why you stayed gone. Questioning you about it is just me being hurt and petty.”

Stiles nodded. “All right,” he said, then paused. “It worked the other way, too. Why didn’t you come find me when you realized I wasn’t coming back?” Derek narrowed his eyes, but didn’t answer. “You know you could have. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew where I’d moved before I’d even been gone a week.”

“You’re not wrong,” Derek said. “You wanted to be gone. I know how that feels. I wasn’t going to take it away.”

“Fine,” Stiles said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “You know why I left, I know why I left, and no one’s pissed anymore. Why are we still avoiding one another?”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Derek answered. “We’re speaking, and we’re in the same room. That’s not avoidance.”

Stiles stopped fighting the urge and let his eyes ask the ceiling for patience. “Cute,” Stiles said. “You know what I’m talking about. I basically had to be dragged here kicking and screaming, and as soon as you noticed I _was_ , you sent Isaac to spy on me. I’d say that’s some pretty A+ avoidance on both our parts.”

“I didn’t--”

“Yes, you did,” Stiles finished. “You absolutely sent Isaac to spy on me. If I ask him, he’ll admit it.”

Derek growled again, softly. “Then tell me. Why are we avoiding one another?”

“Hell if I know,” Stiles answered. “I’m not mad at you anymore. I have no good reason.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Derek said.

“Sure it does,” Stiles said. “It’s awkward as hell. That’s the reason. I still care about your opinion. You matter to me.”

Breathing through his nose, Derek said, “No one is mad anymore. It’s just an old scar. The pack would welcome you back whenever you wanted. It might take some time for them to really trust you, but twelve years is a long time to be angry.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “I didn’t say it was awkward with the pack, just with you.” He paused. “Why are you avoiding me, Derek?”

“You’re right,” Derek answered. “It’s awkward. There’s more than just old anger there.”

“Hurt,” Stiles offered. “Disappointment. Regret. Unrealistic expectations.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed. The tension washed out of his face as he added, “Love.”

Stiles snorted. “Everything would be so much easier without it,” he said. “Moving on, forgiving, interacting in a way even remotely resembling normal.”

Derek huffed and Stiles gave him a grin. “Easier, sure,” he said. “But not worth it.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not wrong when I say that’s why we’re avoiding each other,” Stiles said, half of his mouth quirking in an ironic smile. 

“You’re probably not,” Derek agreed.

“Doesn’t mean I know how to fix it,” Stiles said, shrugging and immediately regretting it. Apparently, long, awkward conversations didn’t keep drugs from wearing off. Karmically, they really should.

“No,” Derek said. “I don’t think it’s something that can be fixed.” He paused. “Rebuilt, maybe, but not fixed. It wouldn’t fit right anymore.”

Stiles gave Derek a smile. “That’s the truth, right there. Can you imagine how much _more_ awkward this would be if we were still the people we had been twelve years ago?”

Derek let out a short laugh and Stiles let his smile grow a little. “Yes. I can. I’m glad we aren’t.”

“So what should we do?” Stiles asked. “We can’t let it stay awkward. I don’t think we have the luxury.”

“No,” Derek agreed. “We can’t.” He stopped to look at Stiles, and Stiles let the silence rest. After a few moments, Derek continued, “But we can learn. We’ve changed, yes, but we’ve stayed the same, too.”

“Poetic. True in at least a few ways, though,” Stiles agreed. “I’m still a sarcastic jackass.”

Derek smirked. “I still make Scott give the inspirational speeches.”

“I still have a completely rational fear of sunflowers,” Stiles continued. 

 

“I still think your completely irrational fear of sunflowers is because you got lost in them when you were ten, and you’re too stubborn to let it go,” Derek said, smirk slipping into a small smile.

“I’m still annoyingly stubborn,” Stiles said.

“So stubborn you haven’t asked for any help with the pain,” Derek agreed.

“You’re still annoyingly perceptive,” Stiles added.

“So are you,” Derek said.

Stiles watched him stand and walk up to the bed. Derek stood next to him for a moment before placing his hand on Stiles’ arm, his eyes flashing as the pain in Stiles’ head and chest bled out. While Derek was close, Stiles put his hand over Derek’s where it rested on his arm and squeezed lightly. “Thanks.”

Derek’s eyebrows drew together for a moment, then relaxed. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to last chapter's prompt winners: Priss_Kimio and CreativeCreature. Don't forget to make your requests!
> 
> Also: I adored writing that chapter. And if you disagree with how that happened, let me know! I have some Strong Opinions, but I'm always open to finding out if I'm wrong / people don't agree. 
> 
> This chapter's trivia question: What is my favorite flower? (Yeah, there's no reason you should know this, so two hints: it's technically a weed, and the flowers look like little bells.)  
> No winner. :/ I'm sticking to Teen Wolf-related questions now, I promise. (The answer is: Lily of the Valley.)
> 
> Now go forth and conquer! You can also [follow me on Tumblr](http://approximatelytrue.tumblr.com), because I'm occasionally interesting, and you can ask box me _anything you want_. I mean, it won't always work, but you don't get what you don't ask for, right?


	20. In Which Stiles Has a Very Bad Feeling and His Nurse Becomes a Character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy this chapter. It's really mean-spirited.
> 
> Er. Obviously I love it for the Nurse. Yes. The Nurse. ~~But it's really mean-spirited.~~
> 
> Also: last chapter on Thursday + first side story!

Lydia really hadn’t been joking. She burst through the door to Stiles’ room after almost exactly an hour, interrupting a story Stiles had been telling about the insane roommate he’d had during grad school.

“Oh, good,” she said. “You’re speaking. You’ve reached a preschool level of social skills.”

“Go away, Lydia,” Derek intoned, scowling. Stiles smirked.

“No,” Lydia said. “You have a meeting with the rest of the Counsel in forty minutes, and I’ll be damned if you make us look ridiculous after all that prepping.”

“No one made you do that,” Derek said slowly.

Lydia scoffed. “No one made me do it,” she repeated. “You and your stupid inability to communicate like a normal living creature made me do it, Derek. Now get down to the car before I drug you and drag you there myself.”

Stiles was laughing outright. “God, I want to see that,” he said.

Derek stood, but glared at both Lydia and Stiles in turn. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

Once Derek had walked out of the room, Lydia smiled at Stiles. It was slightly feral. “If you haven’t confessed your big gay love for one another yet, I really will lock you in a box together. You know that, right?”

Stiles snorted. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” Lydia said, turning on her heel and walking out of the room.

Jess and Jason trailed in from where they’d probably been eavesdropping in the hallway; they were both grinning.

Jess gave Stiles an obvious once-over. “So, you both seem to be in one piece,” she said. “I take it that went well?”

“As could be expected,” Stiles answered. “It definitely could have gone worse.”

“Most things can,” Jason said, raising his eyebrows.

“Anyway,” Jess said, waving a hand. “We really just came in to tell you goodnight, James has summoned us back, and that we hope you and your really hot ex work things out.”

Jason nodded in agreement. “Apparently we have to be there in your place, at the weird little meeting about what to do with the prisoners before trial.”

“Too long!” a voice came from the doorway. They all looked to see the nurse standing there, hands on her hips. “He needs sleep and rest, and all of you being here so long isn’t helping! Out!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jason said, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. “We were just on our way out.”

The nurse narrowed her eyes.

“Up and walking,” Jason said, standing up and heading to the door. Jess mimicked him. 

“See you tomorrow,” Jess said as they walked out the door.

The nurse checked Stiles’ vitals and IV line before she nodded and looked down at him. “Go to sleep, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles had an urge to tell her it was _Dr._ Stilinski, thanks, but curbed it. He almost never corrected anyone on that. It felt like too much of a dick move.

As she left, Stiles lowered the end of the bed back down so he was barely propped up and worked his way into a comfortable position under the blankets. He plugged in his phone and set it on the bed next to him.

He had been dozing for a while when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and saw he had two messages, both arrived since he’d lay down.

 **Jessica Courtney (19:42, 16 April 2028)**  
Unmaul yourself and get here to figure out some solution because these people are going to kill us all based on sheer insanity how were you dealing with them

 **Outgoing (20:54, 16 April 2028)**  
Just pretend they’re all toddlers who need things explained slowly. Also like toddlers, assume they’ll throw a fit.

Stiles flipped to the next message and grinned involuntarily. Apparently, the obnoxious gooey parts had decided it was fair to make a reappearance. Maybe prematurely, but Stiles had never really been in control of his warm and fuzzy feelings. See: ten years of Lydia obsession.

 **Derek Hale (20:53, 16 April 2028)**  
Does everyone you know have a name that starts with “J”?

 **Outgoing (20:56, 16 April 2028)**  
Yes. Our lead analyst’s name is Jennings and Aaron’s name is secretly J’Aaron. Jess says it’s chaos over there?

As he clicked the screen off, Stiles lay back into his pillows further, cocooning his shoulders and relaxing. His headache hadn’t come back, for which Stiles was profoundly grateful.

He was less grateful when, a few moments of quiet happiness later, he doubled over like he’d been kicked in the solar plexis. It hurt to think, to breathe, and on his next gasp, Stiles could almost see it. Almost. 

He didn’t need to, though. He felt it.

“Fuck,” Stiles choked, reaching back out to his phone. He tapped through his recent contacts, and each rang through to voicemail. “It’s okay,” he said out loud, everyone’s in the same meeting, someone will call me back.

He rang the members of the Beacon Hills pack whose numbers he had. They all rang to voicemail.

“Maybe fucking everyone’s at the meeting,” Stiles ground out, his breathing slowly returning to normal. The ball of terror was sitting steadily just under his diaphragm, but Stiles was finding himself able to move again.

He managed to wait two minutes before he started unplugging himself from all the machines surrounding him. It was another two minutes of struggling out of bed before the nurse ran in, glancing around in a panic before she fixated on the dangling cords. “Mr. Stilinski--” she started.

Stiles cut her off, “I’ll sign an AMA, I’ll be back later, whatever, but if I don’t go right now, people are going to die. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know, and it’s a lot of people, and it would be really, really bad.” He took a breath. “And not just for those people.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then nodded. There was probably a truly embarrassing amount of terror on Stiles’ face. “Fine,” she said, “but I’m coming with you.”

“No, that’s not--”

“If you say necessary, Mr. Stilinski, I will beat you with your IV pole and stick you right back in that bed,” she said. Stiles watched as she pulled a compact medical kit out of a cupboard. “You’re my responsibility. I won’t have you dying because I was too stubborn to believe you.” She paused. “Besides, if what you say is true, you might need a nurse.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Where are my shoes?”

The nurse pulled a sterile bag out of another cupboard and tossed Stiles his shoes. “I’m going to go grab you a jacket out of the lost and found. Put those on slowly. If you rush, you’re going to pull your stitches, and then you’ll be in too much pain to go anywhere.”

Stiles refrained from telling her that he’d stayed on his feet for an hour after being shot once, since it didn’t seem like something he should really admit. To anyone.

He pulled his shoes on slowly, taking care to tie the laces, letting the feeling build even bigger beneath his ribcage. He was on his feet and out the door in only a few minutes, but it already felt too late. 

No, it didn’t. The feeling wouldn’t be there anymore if it was. He met the nurse halfway down the stairs, on her return to his room. She gave him a look, but didn’t argue, simply handing him the jacket and following. 

Stiles put the jacket on over his sleep clothes, ignoring that if anything happened, they weren’t going to offer much resistance. 

Just as Stiles was beginning to wonder how on earth he was getting there, the nurse dragged him in the direction of the staff parking lot. “This way,” she said, gesturing him along. Stiles was in the passenger seat of a mid-model Jetta before he’d fully processed what had happened. 

“Isn’t this, like, aiding and abetting somehow?” he asked, buckling himself into the seat.

“I’ve seen that look before: you’re going to do it anyway,” the nurse said. “A desperate man doesn’t stop for safety or logic.”

“So you’re just making sure I add those to the agenda?” Stiles asked, breathing deeply as they reversed out of the parking space. He’d known it was going to hurt, but his chest and stomach hurt like they’d only just been shredded. The stitches were going to scar.

“Yes,” the nurse said. “Now tell me where I’m going.”

Stiles pulled the address off his phone and the nurse plugged it into her GPS. Once they were off, Stiles still sort of lacking comprehension in the “this woman is helping me” department, Stiles flipped through his messages. Nothing. Jess never went this long without responding to a text.

“I’m going to make some phone calls,” Stiles said.

“Have at it,” the nurse said, shrugging. 

Stiles ran through his list of recent contacts, including the Beacon Hills pack, twice more before he started cussing loudly. “Jesus fuck, why is _no one_ answering their phone? Were they collected before the meeting or something stupid? Derek text me ten minutes before I called, why the hell isn’t he answering?”

“Jamming?” the nurse asked, and Stiles turned to stare at her. She shrugged. “This all feels very Bourne Identity,” she continued. “A bunch of people don’t answer their phones. That sounds like call jamming.”

“Oh, Christ,” Stiles said, leaning back in his chair. “They prepared for this. Shit. There’s some sort of fucking suicide bomber plant or something, isn’t there?” He rubbed his hands over his face.

The question had been directed at himself, but the nurse answered, “If this is a spy movie, that sounds about right.”

Stiles choked out a laugh. “I really wish I could deny that.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow, but kept her eyes on the road. “You’re a spy who just happened to get mauled by a mountain lion?”

“Actually, yes. I’m more the program satellites kind of spy, though. It’s usually other people getting mauled,” Stiles said.

“Should you be telling me this?” the nurse asked, turning onto the highway that Stiles recognized as leading straight to the hotel.

“Since I’m pretty sure you’re about to find out something even more ridiculous in about ten minutes, I honestly don’t see how it could hurt,” Stiles said. He held up his phone. “No signal.” The nurse’s GPS cut out. “People don’t use jammers in real life. I mean, amateurs, maybe, but real terrorists just use cloning and satellite morphology. Maybe ten years ago they did, but this is ridiculous.”

“I hope you know where we’re going from here,” the nurse said, speaking over Stiles’ ranting.

“Yeah, it’s the really fancy hotel on the left in about two miles.” Stiles waved his hand. “What I wouldn’t give for an FM radio transponder.” He looked at the nurse. “You wouldn’t happen to secretly have one of those, too, would you?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, Mr. Stilinski, I do not.”

Stiles paused. “Since you keep saying it so often, I should probably mention it’s Dr. Stilinski. In the attitude of fairness.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Stilinski,” the nurse replied.

“Fair enough,” Stiles said, leaning forward in his seat to see them approaching the hotel. It didn’t seem to be burning to the ground -- god, that would probably be their luck -- but Stiles wasn’t going to assume. 

“That?” the nurse asked, gesturing at the hotel.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He was already half out of the car when the nurse parked and pulled her key out of the ignition. “You might want to stay here. It could be dangerous.”

The nurse raised her eyebrows. “No, Mr. Stilinski, I had no idea,” she deadpanned.

Stiles gave her a look. “If we live through this, I’m keeping you.”

“That’s not quite how that works, Mr. Stilinski,” the nurse said, but Stiles could see a crinkle of mirth around her eyes.

“At any rate, stay behind me?” he asked, moving toward the building at as fast of a trot as he could.

“Sure, I’ll stay behind the near-mortally-wounded man,” the nurse replied, shaking her head.

Stiles couldn’t see anything wrong with the hotel when he was inside, but the feeling hadn’t left his gut. Whatever was going to happen just hadn’t yet. It only took him a few minutes to run into some of the Emissaries -- Southern, he thought -- milling around the lobby, looking both concerned and annoyed. At least one of them seemed to recognize him, as the rest of the group quickly silenced.

“Mr. Stilinski--” the man started, but Stiles cut him off.

“It’s a trap. One of the prisoners is planning something. Everyone needs to get out of the hotel _now_ ,” Stiles said, throwing an arm toward the door. “We need to get everyone out.”

The man pulled out his phone, then scowled when he had no reception. 

“They’re jamming GPS signals,” Stiles said quickly. “Take as little time as you can to tell as many people as possible, then get the hell out.” The feeling throbbed. “A minute. Do as much as you can in a minute, then get as far away from the building as you can.”

The man nodded briskly and disappeared. Literally. Fae, then.

“I’m going to pretend that didn’t just happen,” the nurse said, watching as the rest of the group either disappeared or ran.

“I told you it would get worse,” Stiles said, running down the hallway. Adrenaline had kicked in and the pain had moved to a dull throb. Stiles took the time to yell the same warning to everyone he passed, but moved straight toward the room the party had been in. He had a crazed thought that he ought to know the name of the room at this point, but cut that off as he neared the doors. “This is going to be weirdest,” Stiles warned, pushing the doors open.

He’d slammed the doors open forcefully enough that they bounced off the wall with a loud thud. James recognized him first. “Stiles?” he asked, puzzlement in his voice. “Why are you--”

“Get out of the building,” Stiles said, raising his voice so the room could hear him. “Right now. All the lines are jammed, I tried to call, we have about thirty seconds.” He caught his hands on his knees, panting. Adrenaline or not, his body only had so much in it.

He didn’t see James and Theo exchange a look, or notice when Jess and Jason dashed from the table toward him.

“You heard him,” Theo said loudly. “Evacuate. Find everyone you can on your way out.”

Jason and Jess hauled Stiles all the way back onto his feet, one of his arms around each of their shoulders.

“Fuck,” Jason said. “How did you even _get_ here?” He and Jess tugged until Stiles was walking with them, shrugging off their arms. That was making them move too slowly.

“The nurse,” Stiles said, gesturing behind him. He could see Jason notice the nurse for the first time.

“Well,” Jason said, looking over his shoulder as he jogged toward the exit into the woods. “Hi, there.”

“Mr. Curtis,” the nurse said flatly.

Jason looked back at Stiles. “I’m suitably impressed.”

Stiles gritted his teeth. “Be suitably impressed a hundred yards from the building, please.” He glanced around, then stopped. Jess and Jason stopped with him, the nurse nearly running into him from behind. “Not everyone was at that meeting. Where were Derek and Elice?”

Jess and Jason exchanged a look.

“Shit,” Jess said. “They went to interview the prisoner we think was in charge of the attack.”

“That means their Emissaries aren’t being specifically collected, and they’re too far away for anyone to have passed them on the way out,” Stiles said, spinning around.

“Whoa,” Jason said, grabbing Stiles’ shoulder. “Getting killed isn’t the right answer.” He glanced around. “This place has a PA. Can you hack it through the WiFi?”

“The WiFi is jammed,” Jess said, shaking her head. “I checked as soon as Stiles yelled.”

“Then a hardwire,” Jason said, shoving Stiles toward the exit to the building. “One of the ground wires. _Outside._ ”

“Jess--” Stiles started.

“Nope, I’m with him,” Jess said. “It’s productive to no one if we all die. Getting hacked into the PA is the best thing we could do for anyone still in the building.” She put a hand on Stiles arm softly for a moment before tightening it and dragging him toward the exit. “They’re a lot less fragile than we are, too.”

“Fuck,” Stiles said, turning to go with them willingly. “Fuck,” he repeated. “It ground wires will be underground. I need a fae.”

Jason nodded before sprinting out the door and through the treeline. Stiles hadn’t realized just how much he was slowing them down.

They weren’t more than fifty feet from the building when Jason returned, Jorge in tow.

“Stiles,” Jorge said reprimandingly. “Why are you out of bed?” 

“Saving your lives,” Stiles said bluntly. “I need you to find the ground wire connecting the Internet to its server tower. I need you to find it ten minutes ago.”

Jorge nodded, then vanished. 

Stiles stayed where he was, waiting.

“We need to get further away,” Jess said. “Just in case.”

“I don’t know that they’re actually planning on blowing it up,” Stiles said, waving a hand at her. “It’s just most likely. All I know is that the hotel feels like a deathtrap.”

“Jesus,” Jason said. “Why can nothing be straightforward?”

Jess nudged him with an eyebrow, pulling up a smirk. “You joined the CIA for ‘straightforward’?”

“Sometimes I think back on how simple my life was, just getting shot at by drug dealers and kids on meth,” Jason said, shaking his head.

Jorge reappeared. “Ninety yards,” he said flatly. “If your time warning was right, we are already out of time, and it will be a long run.” He glanced Stiles up and down. “One that you cannot make.”

“I’ll have to,” Stiles said, gritting his teeth.

After a pause, Jorge nodded. “Then do please forgive the indignity,” he said before he picked Stiles up and moved, faster than Stiles really comprehended. He could see Jess, Jason, and the nurse -- she was still here, and wasn’t that ridiculous -- following, but barely. Jorge put him down less than a minute later before reaching into the ground and pulling a series of bound black cables to the surface. “This is the ground wire.”

Stiles stared. “That’s a ground circuit. The Central Emissaries sure didn’t cut corners, did they?”

Jorge shook his head. “That would have been a great insult.”

Tugging his phone out of his pocket, Stiles dropped to his knees. “Shit, I need a knife, anything sharp.” He looked back up at Jorge, who pulled a small switchblade out of his pocket. Stiles was positive it was made out of silver. “Not judging,” he said, using the blade to cut the rubber insulation. He pulled a wire loose from the rest, ignoring the small current that went through his fingers. Popping the back off his phone, Stiles pulled out a wire he’d installed for situations like this.

Not that he’d ever expected any situations like this. It had just seemed fun.

It took a few moments, but Stiles had the wires connected and an ASCII system scrolled across his phone’s screen. The feeling in his stomach was so close it was making him shake. Jess, Jason, and the nurse joined them just as Stiles was coding his phone’s dialing system into the hotel’s wired connected to the PA system.

“Go,” Stiles said quickly. “Get further away. You can’t help with this.”

“Sure we can’t,” Jason said. “I have no idea what the hell you’re even doing.” He shrugged. “That doesn’t mean we’re leaving you here alone.”

“Nope,” Jess agreed, leaning against Jason.

The nurse shrugged. “You’re my problem, not the building. We all die, at least I get those vacation days.”

Stiles snorted inappropriately, then turned to Jorge.

Jorge was staring back in the direction of the hotel. “I will remain to assist. Our enemy is responsible for the death of my father-in-law. That puts them at blood feud with the Valence Clan. I will not move until we are certain that doing so will not spread more blood in our line or alliance.”

Finishing the code, Stiles nodded. He pulled the phone up like a walkie-talkie and tapped the screen. “This is Agent Stilinski,” he said briskly. “The hotel is not safe, evacuate immediately. You do not have any time. If you are hearing this message, you are in imminent danger. Do not look for anyone else. This message is being projected across the entire building’s PA system, which is, helpfully, wired and on a closed circuit. The jamming that has affected all of the phones can’t keep it from broadcasting. If someone is still in the building, they will hear this message. I repeat, you are in imminent danger--”

Stiles was cut off when the building exploded. He had enough time to notice Jorge drop to cover him before everything whited out with the force of the blast. He lost grip on his phone as the concussive force threw him backward at least fifteen feet and he rolled across the ground, tearing small cuts and bruises into his skin and feeling at least one of the claw marks opening.

In a few moments the initial explosion died down and Stiles’ eardrums stopped vibrating. When he looked up at the hotel, half of it was simply gone and the other half was catching fire quickly.

“Oh, god,” he breathed, pushing himself to his knees. He looked around him and found Jess and Jason in a heap about nine feet to his left, the nurse a few feet further. Jorge was unconscious only a few inches to his right. Stiles shook Jorge until his eyes opened. They focused almost immediately.

“We are alive?” he asked, sitting up.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Thanks.”

Jorge inclined his head. “Once again, you have saved the lives of many. My honor would have it no other way.”

Stiles gave him a crooked grin, then turned to the others. “We need to check them.”

“Yes,” Jorge agreed. 

It took most of the energy he had, obligingly refueled by adrenaline, to make it to the pile of humans, but when Stiles got there he saw that everyone was breathing. He also saw that Jess’ phone was ringing.

No more jamming when the jammer blows up.

Stiles answered it when he saw James’ name on the caller ID. “James,” he said, then coughed.

“Are you all away from the blast?” James asked quickly.

“Not really,” Stiles said. “We realized the Southern and Western Emissaries were still with the prisoners, which meant that no one was doing an accounting for their people. I hacked the ground line for the Internet and got a message out over the PA system, but the building exploded less than ten seconds later.” He paused. “I don’t know if it helped or not.”

“If someone didn’t get out in time, that’s not your responsibility,” James said, his voice controlled but softer than usual. “It’s only the responsibility of those who committed the crime.”

“And they’re all dead,” Stiles finished. “Sort of disappointing, actually.” He glanced down as Jess groaned. “Jess is waking up. I’ll hand the phone down to her.” He heard an exhalation on the end of the line.

Then James said, “Yes, of course.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. He looked back at the burning wreck of the hotel before turning to Jorge. “Can I borrow your phone?” he asked.

Jorge nodded. “Of course.” He glanced around. “I will go to where my people have gathered and retrieve those with healing abilities. We will head for the hotel, and I will send someone here to retrieve the four of you.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said. He watched Jorge disappear, then looked back down at the phone. “Fuck,” he said lightly, then punched in Derek’s number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote a cliffhanger. You have _no idea_ how rare this is for me. I like solid ending points for chapters. Or writing things in one piece. This was just, well, a good place to stop, or this and 21 would have been one 15K chapter and that would just be terrifying.
> 
> That said: only one chapter left! You'll get it and the first side-story on Thursday. :)
> 
>  **ETA** : Since no one has guessed yet, I should perhaps remind folks that guessing correctly earns you a ficlet in any of my fandoms, inclusive of something within the Stuck on Repeat universe. :)
> 
> Also, since no one got last chapter's question right (sorry, guys, no more obscure crap), there are two questions this week! Note: you can only get a ficlet for one of them. (So please just guess for one; if you get it wrong, guess for the other!)
> 
> Last chapter's answer: [Lily of the Valley](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lily_of_the_valley). I should have gone with "poisonous" instead of "weed." 
> 
> First question for this chapter! Who starred in the original (really terrible, IMO) Teen Wolf movie?  
> Winner! Sophi Kingsley
> 
> Second: What's the difference between therianthropy and theriocephaly?  
> Winner! Cecaelia
> 
> (One of them had to be a challenge, c'mon. And if you answer two without wikipedia, good on you! But I'll never know. It's still Teen Wolf-related, for a hint.)


	21. In Which Badassery Happens and The End Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me all this time! Your comments and kudos have absolutely made my day.
> 
> This chapter is the longest of the series. I was really hesitant about an epilogue-y scene, but was talked into providing one, so there you go.
> 
> Also being posted is the first side story, so follow the series link for that!
> 
> It's been a good ride. :)

Derek didn’t answer. Stiles tried to remember Lydia’s number, but came up short. He dialed Scott’s home number, hoping that Melissa might still be awake. With the time difference, it would only be seven forty-five there.

God. Forty-five minutes since the feeling had struck.

Melissa answered on the fourth ring with a nervous, “Hello?” Stiles assumed she’d gotten caller ID at some point.

“Melissa,” Stiles said quickly, “I need Scott’s cell number.”

There was a pause. “Stiles?” she asked.

“Yes, me, I’m at the Counsel, I don’t know if you know what that is, you should, but-- I need Scott’s cell number. The hotel exploded. It’s a long story.” Stiles paused to breathe. “I’m freaking you out, I know,” he said more calmly. “But I really need Scott’s cell.”

“Yeah,” Melissa said slowly. “Of course.” She rattled off the number and Stiles memorized it. 

“Okay--” he started.

“Stiles?” Melissa asked, causing Stiles to pause. 

“Yeah?” he asked.

“It’s good to talk to you.”

Stiles smiled. “You, too. Going now.” He hung up the phone and punched in Scott’s number. It rang twice, then,

“Hello?” Scott asked, less nervous consideration, more nervous energy.

“Scott,” Stiles said. “Are you all right?”

“Stiles?” Scott asked. “Whose phone are you using?”

“Jorge Voight’s,” he answered. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Scott answered. “I’m with Allison, Lydia, Isaac, and Jackson. We can’t find anyone else. Someone ran past and told us to get out of the building, so we did.” He paused. “The hotel exploded.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “I’m here. I was the one who told everyone to get out. Bad feeling.”

“Oh,” Scott said. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered. “Where are you?”

He could hear Scott ask Lydia where they were before Lydia came on the phone. “We’re across the street from the main entrance. Where are _you_? None of us are injured, but you are.”

“I’m about thirty yards from the exit off where the ballroom used to be,” Stiles answered. “I think the bomb went off in that North conference room. Is that where the prisoners were being held?”

“Yes,” Lydia answered. “We’re coming to you. Stay there.”

Stiles started to protest, but Lydia hung up the phone. He sat down next to where Jess had just hung up the phone and was staring at the sky, laying flat on her back. “Hey,” he said, nudging her shoulder.

Jess winced. “Hey,” she grumbled. “I think I broke something. Some _things._ ” She groaned. “How are you so fine?”

“I’m used to this?” Stiles guessed. “Muscle memory? I definitely broke a rib.” He pressed down on his right side. “Or at least bruised it. I rolled over a pile of stones, too.” He prodded his stomach. “The stitches on the bottom cut are totally ripped.”

“Ugh,” Jess said. “Lay down with me. It’s what invalids are supposed to do.”

Stiles snorted. “I’ve been laying down for days, remember? Plus, I’m so wired right now I could probably power a small mall.”

“Fair enough,” Jess sighed, turning her head to look at where Jason and the nurse were still unconscious. “Do you know how they are?”

“They’re breathing,” Stiles said, shrugging. “That’s about the extent of my diagnostic capabilities. I don’t want to feel for wounds in case there are some.”

“There are some,” Jason’s voice muttered. “Please don’t touch them.”

Jess sat up, then seemed to immediately wish she hadn’t. “You’re awake!” she said anyway. 

“I have been,” Jason said, his voice still low. “I’m just trying to conserve energy.”

“For what?” Stiles asked. “Being carried out of here? I can tell you: not that tiring.”

Jason snorted. “For breathing. I think I cracked my sternum.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jess breathed. “Stop talking! God!”

Jason snorted again, but didn’t say anything. 

“Shit,” Jess said, turning back to Stiles and pulling her phone out. Stiles could see her dial James.

As she did, Stiles made his way around to the nurse. She was still breathing and her heartbeat was steady. “Sorry,” Stiles said, giving her shoulder a light pat. “But thanks.”

A few minutes later, Scott ran up to them and dropped his hands to his knees to pant a little. “How the hell are you so close to this?” he asked, standing up straight to gesture to the burning hotel.

“I’m not sure how to answer that question,” Stiles said. “I mean, I could say it’s because I only moved this far, which is true. I could also say that it’s because I hacked the ground line and that I needed to be close for that to work, because that’s also true.” He paused. “Which will get me in less trouble?”

“Neither,” Lydia said, showing up behind Scott with Allison, Jackson, and Isaac behind her. “I understand you needed to save the day, but couldn’t you have done it from the hospital?”

Stiles paused. Yes, he could have hacked the PA from the hospital. No, they didn’t need to know that. Yes, Lydia probably already did. “In retrospect, yes.” He shrugged the shoulder that didn’t feel like it was going to fall off. “It didn’t occur to me at the time.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“We’ve called around,” Allison put in. “The pack is going to meet up here. We’ve found everyone except Derek and Erica.”

“They aren’t answering their phones,” Isaac said, “but we’d know if they were dead.” He paused. “I mean, Scott, Jackson, and I would. Lydia and Allison wouldn’t.”

“Thanks,” Allison said dryly. “Like you needed to explain that.”

Isaac shrugged.

“So they’re not dead,” Stiles said. “Do you know where they were before the bomb went off? Jason said Derek and Elice were interviewing a prisoner, but I haven’t heard anything about Erica.”

“Have you checked on your own Emissaries?” Lydia asked.

Stiles nodded. “They’re all with James, perfectly unhurt. Lucky assholes.” He turned back to Isaac. “Can you tell if they’re hurt?”

“Yes,” Isaac nodded. “I can’t tell which is which, though.” He turned to Scott.

“I can’t, either.” Scott gave Isaac an apologetic look. “I think I can find them, though.”

Stiles glanced back at the fire. “We’re going to need a naiad. Or seven.”

Lydia pulled out her phone. “Well, we’ve got one. It’ll have to do.” She put her phone to her ear and wandered off.

Stiles heaved himself to his feet and looked at Scott. “So what do we do?”

Scott looked him up and down. “Well, I’m going to go look for anyone missing. You’re going to sit down before you pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass out,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “I know what it feels like when I’m going to pass out. This is not it. This is really fucking painful, but I’m not losing blood or concussed.” He paused. “I’m losing a little bit of blood, but it’s really just like having been nicked a few times. I tore open some stitches, but that clotted over a couple minutes ago.” He lifted his shirt to stare at the jagged opening in the wound.

“Fine,” Scott said, crossing his arms. “But you’re with Lydia.”

“Oh, great,” Lydia said, walking back up to them. “I get the invalid.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Harlan, the naiad, has already started putting out the fire from the front. One of the fae has control over water, and Jorge is sending him our way. They can’t find Elice, either, so I think he’s motivated to help us.”

“That and he thinks he owes me a life debt,” Stiles added. “Apparently I’ve saved them too many times.”

Isaac snorted. “Only you would think the fae owing you a life debt is an inconvenience.”

“Well,” Stiles started, then paused. “I don’t find it inconvenient, I just don’t think it’s really owed. I didn’t do anything to help them in particular, but the Counsel at large.”

“It probably doesn’t help that most of the people getting murdered and being murderers are from the Southern Emissaries,” Allison said. “That sort of relationship tends to make people feel more responsible.”

“Fair,” Stiles agreed. It was only a moment before the fae appeared. Stiles recognized him as the one he’d first run into when he entered the hotel.

The fae inclined his head. “I am Barnard Mason,” the fae said. “Jorge has sent me to help you enter the building safely.” He looked at Stiles. “He says we are once again indebted to you, Agent Stilinski. Please accept my assistance as a gesture toward paying that debt.”

Trying not to make a face, Stiles nodded. “Absolutely. Do we have a list of everyone who’s missing?”

“Yes,” Lydia said, holding up her phone. “I made them take a census.” She glared at the grins on the faces all around her. “There are only eight people missing. Derek and Erica, obviously. The Northern Emissaries are missing Lindsay Marcus and Andrew Lawyer, both witches. The Central Emissaries are missing Oakley Mitchell, Melanie Underhill, and Olivia Peoples, a human, dryad, and empath, respectively. The Southern Emissaries are missing Elice Campbell.”

Barnard nodded. “Yes. That is the list that I was given by Jorge, as well.” He paused. “I hope you do not find my selfishness in worrying more for my Emissary’s daughter than for the rest as a deterrent to repaying our debt.” He inclined his head again to Stiles.

“Nope,” Stiles answered. “That’s just natural. As long as you don’t ditch us once you find her, we’re all good.”

“Of course not,” Barnard said, looking slightly offended. “I shall simply summon another to take her out of the building, as I shall do for any we find inside.”

Lydia’s phone blipped. “They’ve found Melanie Underhill,” she said. “Apparently she merged with an oak in the grove and hid until she thought it was safe to come out.”

“Seven, then,” Stiles said. “Let’s go.”

They followed Barnard to the entrance Stiles had used to escape and stared at the decimated room. Barnard made a gesture and water ringed them, licking out occasionally to put out fires as they passed. 

“Useful,” Stiles said, grinning. Barnard inclined his head. Stiles was starting to hate that gesture.

Allison had stayed with Jess, Jason, and the nurse -- Stiles really needed to get her name -- until help came to retrieve them. Cora and Boyd had arrived to help, but Barnard had said he could only hold the ring of water large enough for Lydia, Jackson, Scott, and Stiles. Isaac had almost protested about being left behind, but Scott gave him a look and he sat down next to Allison instead.

They were about five minutes into searching when Lydia’s phone blipped again. She heaved a breath. “They found Erica. She’s pretty burned, but she’ll heal. Liam broke her arm to accelerate the process. He says she clawed his arm as a thank you. Her phone got crushed under some support beams.”

“Six,” Stiles said, glancing around.

“We’re continuing toward the center of the explosion,” Lydia said, gesturing Barnard forward.

“Of course,” he said. 

About halfway there, Scott sniffed out someone in a room off to their right and they detoured. An old man was holding a younger woman’s head in his lap and staring down at her. She was obviously dead, based on the hole in her abdomen. She’d been caught in the explosion.

Scott knelt down beside them. “Mr. Mitchell?” he asked. Stiles nodded, figuring that’s who this had to be. Oakley Mitchell was the only man above forty missing, and Olivia Peoples was the young empath that had been with the Central Emissaries.

“Yes,” the man responded, his voice raspy and tired.

“We need to get you out of here,” Scott continued, putting a hand on Oakley’s shoulder. Oakley Mitchell was human, Stiles remembered. 

“I suppose you must,” Oakley agreed. He continued to sit and stare down at the girl.

Stiles nodded to Barnard, who pulled out his phone to summon a couple of the fae to assist.

Jorge and another fae named Horace appeared moments later. Jorge knelt next to Scott and tilted Oakley’s head up to meet his eyes. 

“Oakley,” Jorge said quietly. “Miss Peoples is dead. You cannot properly bury or mourn her if you allow yourself to join her.”

Oakley blinked his eyes slowly. “I know,” he said, his eyes red and bloodshot. Stiles knew that it was only the air, smoke, and some kind of powerful internal strength keeping Oakley from crying.

“Let me escort you out. Horace will make sure that Miss Peoples suffers no more injustice,” Jorge said, standing and holding out a hand.

Oakley nodded. Horace scooped up Olivia and left so quickly that Stiles barely registered him. Jorge tugged Oakley to his feet, pulled him into an embrace, and did the same.

Stiles saw that Lydia had her phone out. She looked up at him. “I’ve informed the Counsel that Oakley Mitchell and Olivia Peoples have been found,” she said softly.

Barnard gestured out of the room. “We must continue,” he said. “It does no good to mourn that which we cannot change.”

“Well said,” Stiles said, giving Barnard half a grin. 

Almost everything around them was completely destroyed after only a few more minutes of walking, and Scott and Jackson were testing the floorboards before they let anyone else step on them. They had to take a circuitous route around the hallway that had been next to where they’d been holding the prisoners before they could get any closer to the room. This time, Barnard stopped them.

“I sense fae magic,” he said, turning to stare to their left. Stiles followed his gaze to where a smoldering hole might once have been a room, then further, to where he could see a wrong-colored spark on the other side of a bent and cracking wall.

“Elice?” Stiles asked.

Barnard tilted his head. “I do not know her magic well enough to say. She does not often use it.”

“What kind of magic does she have?” Lydia asked, stepping up next to them.

Barnard turned to her. “Protective.”

“Meaning?” Lydia prompted.

“She creates shields and barriers made of energy,” Barnard clarified.

“That is one handy-ass skill,” Jackson said, whistling. “Especially when you’re in an exploding building.”

“Why are we still standing here?” Stiles asked, gesturing Jackson and Scott forward. “Get testing.”

Barnard’s circle was practically glowing, so much water was being used to keep the fire away. He’d stopped trying to put it out and was merely creating them a very damp tunnel. It took longer than Stiles would have liked -- he couldn’t see the time, so he had no real way of knowing -- to get around the pit that was probably where the prisoners had been. He didn’t give energy to the hope that any of them were still alive, not because he didn’t care, but because it wasn’t realistic.

When they finally made it so that they were standing on the other side of a wall from the flickering light, Barnard drenched the wall, then turned to Stiles.

“I am not sure how to proceed,” Barnard said. “Logic dictates that this close to the fire, nothing away from the support beams is stable, and the room before us is upon none. We may tear this wall down easily, but I do not see how we are to retrieve anyone inside.”

Stiles took a deep breath. “We don’t have another choice. There’s no way to get to the door, if it even still exists.” He gestured to all the floorboards that Scott and Jackson were herding them away from. “We need to tear it down.”

“Further,” Barnard continued, turning back to the wall, “we have not left a safe route from which Jorge and Horace can come to assist in the rescue. We must do it ourselves, and I cannot use that energy without allowing the fire to consume us all.”

“Then we improvise,” Stiles said, turning to look at Lydia.

She sighed. “You know, we haven’t had a plan pulled this far out of our asses since you left,” she said. “I’m starting to think it was all you.”

Stiles let out a small laugh. “Me, too.” He turned to Scott and Jackson. “Pull the wall down.”

It only took a couple hefty pushes from both werewolves to destroy the wall. Inside was both Elice and Derek, relatively unharmed, but stuck in the middle of the room. They surveyed the rescue party for a few moments before Elice asked, tentatively, “You would not happen to have a plan to get us out of here, would you?”

“Not at the moment, ma’am,” Stiles answered, trying to concentrate on the room instead of collapsing with relief that Derek was all right. He didn’t need to examine the strength of that relief; it wasn’t worth bringing back his vast fields of denial.

“Please hurry,” Elice continued. “I do not have the strength to maintain this for more than another four minutes.”

Stiles glanced at her. “Thanks for that,” he said, scowling. “I’ll try to think faster.”

“What are you balancing on?” Lydia asked, gesturing to the lack of any remaining floorboards outside of the six square feet covered by Elice’s barrier.

“Nothing,” Elice replied. “The spell is simply keeping the floor beneath us in its original condition. The floor itself is no longer connected to anything.”

“Can you move the whole lot of it?” Stiles asked. “Like, essentially fly yourselves over here?”

“No,” Elice answered shortly. “That is not how this magic works.”

“Fae magic,” Lydia clarified, looking down at Stiles.

Elice followed her gaze. “Mr. Stilinski, do you not possess magic of your own?”

“Uh,” Stiles replied. He stared for a moment. “Hypothetically, yes. I don’t use it, so I have no idea what it does.”

“It creates a spark,” Elice said, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles resisted throwing something at her only because he was worried it would break the barrier. “Yes,” he answered. “I get the natural impulses. I just haven’t tried to do anything specific with the magic in a very long time. And even then, I only managed to start fires.” He gestured around. “I don’t think we need my help with that.”

“Wait,” Lydia said, putting a hand on Stiles’ arm. “We could.” She looked at Elise. “What would happen if a concussive force hit your barrier? Would it just stay there, or, since you’re not moored to anything, would you move?”

Elice sighed. “It would stay here. The magic works in attunement to ley lines, not physical manifestation.”

“Damn,” Lydia said, frowning.

“You might try something else,” Elice said, looking at Stiles. “Mr. Stilinski, you ought to be able to move objects. The floorboards themselves are still quite sturdy.”

Stiles choked on a laugh. “I’ve never moved anything larger than a coffee mug, and that was on accident.”

It was the wrong thing to say. “Then you do possess the power to move things.”

Stiles rolled his eyes until he noticed the way the fire was tearing a hole in the ceiling. “Oh, fuck,” he said. 

Lydia glanced up. “That could be a problem.” She looked over at Stiles, then back to Elise. “Can you jump this distance?”

Elice glanced between the floorboards she was floating on and where Stiles and Lydia were standing on a small group of boards balanced on a still-standing support beam. She looked back up at them. “Yes,” she said. Her eyes flickered to Stiles. “This is a terrible plan. If we survive, you will learn to control your magic.”

“Uh, sure,” Stiles agreed, backing up as far as Scott and Jackson would let them. He turned to Derek. “Are you good?”

“Yes,” Derek answered shortly.

“Then jump,” Lydia said.

“I will break the barrier in two seconds,” Elice said, turning to Derek. “We must jump precisely.”

“Fine,” Derek answered.

When Elice dropped the barrier, both she and Derek took a step and pushed off the falling boards. As soon as they hit the floor, Barnard and Scott grabbed them and pulled them onto the sturdier surface.

Which started shaking.

“Well, shit,” Jackson said, taking a few steps around them. “We need to get back the way we came, and real fucking fast. The floor is collapsing.”

“So’s the ceiling,” Stiles added, just as part of it fell and pushed parts of the floor and some remaining wall into the basement.

“We do not have time for caution,” Barnard said, expanding his circle to cover both Elice and Derek as well. “I do not know how long I will be able to keep the fire at bay with this expansion.”

“Awesome,” Stiles said. “Then we run for it.”

Jackson growled. “This is a fucking terrible plan.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Since when do we have good ones?”

“I’m blaming Stiles,” Jackson answered, though his growling stopped under Lydia’s glare. He turned to Scott. “We’re going first. Let’s just try to follow the path we took in.”

“No,” Stiles cut in. “We don’t have time to go in a thousand circles.” He looked around. “We’re only about fifty feet from the atrium -- don’t think the irony has escaped me -- and that’s on solid ground. If we can get there, we might get a little singed, but we won’t die under collapsing floorboards.” He turned in a slow circle. “Scott, can you smell the trees?”

Scott gave him a look. “Under all the fire and ash and burning flesh? Not even a little.”

“Didn’t need to know that last one,” Lydia said, frowning.

“I can,” Derek said. He pointed slightly to the left of the direction they were facing. “The atrium is on the other side of that wall.”

“Other side of that wall it is,” Stiles said.

 

The mad dash Stiles took across the floorboards and through the wall Jackson had shouldered down was something he sort of wished he remembered, but mostly was glad had happened and he didn’t have to think about it ever again.

The atrium was on fire when they reached it, but without having to protect them from the ground, Barnard was able to expand his magic enough to keep them from being burned alive. Lydia called for help, and it only took another five minutes for them to be rescued and escorted out through a damp hallway.

Lydia’s phone had gone off several times while they were inside, but she’d ignored it in favor of making sure she didn’t get anywhere near the fire. When she was outside, she opened it and sighed. “Everyone has been found. The only fatalities were Olivia Peoples and Andrew Lawyer. Both were caught in the explosion itself.”

Elice said, “As were I and Mr. Hale. We were simply better prepared.” She walked off quickly, Barnard trailing after her. A firetruck and several ambulances had arrived and were in the parking lot, putting out the fire and checking on wounds, respectively. 

“Do we have supernatural disaster forces?” Stiles asked the group at large.

“Yup,” Scott said. “Cool, right?”

“Interesting,” Stiles said. “Also, I’m sitting now.”

The adrenaline was gone, had mostly run out while he was in the atrium waiting to be rescued. Stiles had kept himself on his feet through sheer stubbornness and the knowledge that if he collapsed inside, it was likely that someone would get hurt trying to help him.

Mostly the sheer stubbornness.

Stiles sat down hard, stretching his legs out in front of him and finally wrapping an arm around his ribcage. Fortunately, he knew his rib was only bruised, because if it had been broken, it probably would have splintered off and killed him by now. It was only a moment or two before he flopped down on his back.

“Let me know when leaving is happening,” he said, closing his eyes. “I think I’m going to take a nap.”

There was silence for a bit, then,

“Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles, how injured _are_ you?” Lydia dropped down next to him and took his pulse. 

“I have no idea,” Stiles answered. “I told you most of it earlier.”

“Ugh,” Lydia said. “Liam!”

Stiles felt cool fingers on his head, then running down the arm curled around his chest. “Stiles,” Liam greeted. Stiles had only known Liam for a few months before he left. He didn’t know if that made this less or more awkward.

“Hey,” Stiles greeted, still not opening his eyes. “There isn’t anything wrong with my arm. Maybe some cuts and scratches. I think I bruised a rib, though.” He tapped on it. “Probably not broken.”

Liam moved Stiles’ arm and pressed on the rib slightly. “Cracked,” Liam said.

Stiles opened his eyes. “Really? Huh.”

He saw Liam roll his eyes. “It’s probably because you wandered around inside a giant burning building. If it had just been bruised before, you could have cracked it without too much effort.”

Opening his eyes had been a bad idea. Stiles caught and kept Derek’s gaze without really intending to. Derek seemed understandably angry -- probably not just at Stiles -- but he also looked like he wanted to collapse on the ground as much as Stiles had. Stiles couldn’t see anything wrong with Derek other than a few cuts and bruises that were mostly healed. 

When he figured it out, he almost said it out loud. Almost. Sometimes Stiles could manage tact, though not often when he hurt so much he couldn’t fully see straight. 

Stiles knew Derek had noticed when Stiles’ vision had unfocused, because he knelt down and placed a hand on Stiles’ arm, drawing some of the pain away. “Thanks,” Stiles said softly.

Derek opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by Jess shrieking,

“Oh my god, Stiles!” and thundering up to them. Her left arm was bound to her side and she had a few covered stitches on her face, but she otherwise seemed fine. “They said you went into the building. I thought I _dreamed_ that happening, because it was _such a fucking terrible idea_.” She knelt down next to Stiles, shuffling Liam out of the way, and softly punched Stiles in the shoulder.

“How’s Jason?” Stiles asked.

“His sternum really was broken, as well as about four ribs. He got wrapped and sent off to surgery. Don’t think you can distract me that easily.” Jess was frowning, something akin to her Mom Look on her face.

Stiles sighed. “Sorry?” he asked.

“You got mauled, then thrown at least thirty feet, and you went inside a burning building,” Jess stated calmly. “You are the stupidest person I have ever met.”

“Thirty feet?” Lydia asked, her voice dangerous. “You left that out.”

Grimacing, Stiles muttered, “I told you about the injuries, you didn’t really need to know how they happened.”

“Concussive force is a big deal,” Lydia continued. “You can suffer extensive internal bleeding just from the frequency, and knowing you, you’d be too stupid to notice.”

Stiles poked at himself. “No, I don’t think I’m bleeding internally.” He heard Liam sigh. “Ask “Liam?”

“He’s not bleeding internally,” Liam answered. “He got lucky. Based on the amount of replacement blood he’s had to produce in the last three days plus being what I’d guess to be about thirty feet from a building when it exploded, based on the bruising, you shouldn’t be alive.” Liam directed the last at Stiles himself, rather than the group. 

“I’m resilient?” Stiles guessed.

“Lucky,” Liam repeated.

“I’m pretty sure ‘lucky’ is in the actual description of a spark,” Stiles said. “Just saying.”

It wasn’t until he let go that Stiles realized Derek had had his hand on Stiles’ arm the entire time. Before Stiles could say anything, Derek’s phone went off. He glanced at it, then raised his head to look at Scott. “Meeting,” Derek said. “We need to be there.”

“Okay,” Scott agreed, jogging a bit to catch up when Derek immediately turned and left.

“Closet, Stiles,” Lydia said, scowling at him. “Broom closet.”

“Yeah, he is definitely pissed,” Jackson said. “Good luck with that.”

Stiles scoffed. “This isn’t even in the top ten of stupid things I’ve done.”

“No,” Jackson answered, voice more even than Stiles had heard it. “But it’s in the top ten of student things you’ve done since the Counsel began.”

“There’s James,” Jess said, standing.

Stiles turned his head to see James approaching, a couple EMTs with a stretcher in tow. “I think that’s my ride,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. Based on Lydia’s look, he failed.

“Stilinski,” James said, voice brusque. “You are heading back to the hospital. Jess is going with you, and she’s going to sit in your room until I arrive to release her, in case you have any other brilliant ideas about leaving before you’re fully healed.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles said, wincing.

He was able to manage a general goodbye before he was carted off by the EMTs, James and Jess walking to either side.

“That was unbelievably stupid, Stilinski,” James said, pulling out his phone to check his messages. “If I didn’t need to be in a meeting ten minutes ago, I would tell you all the ways it was unbelievably stupid.” He glanced up. “Instead, I’ll leave that to Miss Courtney.”

Jess gave James an off-center salute. “On it.” She grinned down at Stiles as James walked off. “So, number one.”

 

If Stiles had thought James was lying about the twenty-four-hour surveillance on Stiles’ recovery, he was quickly proven wrong. Jess, James, and Aaron all switched off sitting in his room and making sure he didn’t do anything else that they deemed stupid.

Jess let him know that his nurse was fine, hadn’t been fired, and had been recruited to be on the supernatural response team. Stiles was weirdly proud.

She also let him know that Jason was recovering well, and that if Stiles ever did something this stupid again, she was locking him in a bubble for the rest of his life.

“Jesus,” Stiles muttered. “Bubble, closet, why does everyone want to lock me in a small space?”

Jess raised her eyebrows. “Because maybe then you’ll take care of yourself, or at least not actively try to get killed.”

“I was not trying to get killed,” Stiles said. “I was trying to help other people not get killed, even. There was no trying to get killed involved.”

“Maybe, but there was a flagrant disregard for your own life and safety,” Jess argued. “If you think you dying would have been a fair trade, you are incredibly mistaken.”

Stiles turned his head. “That wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“I know,” Jess said, taking her seat next to his bed.

Stiles’ phone had been blown to pieces by the explosion and James hadn’t seen fit to replace it yet. Something about not giving him any outside temptation. He was probably right.

Unfortunately, this meant that when Derek arrived, Stiles had no notice. Derek nodded at Jess, who got up and left, having apparently been in contact with every single person who wanted to strangle Stiles.

“Are you my next babysitter?” Stiles asked, ignoring how Derek was standing with his arms crossed rather than sitting down in the chair Jess had vacated.

“No,” Derek answered. “If you’re stupid enough to try to leave again, that’s on you.”

Stiles grimaced. “Fair enough. I don’t have any plans to leave, you know. I didn’t before, either, until I couldn’t get a hold of anyone. Extenuating circumstances?” Stiles hated how much it sounded like he was asking a question. Probably because he was.

“Yes,” Derek said. “Fine.” He was staring Stiles down like he thought Stiles would try to run away unless he kept him physically pinned there with his eyes. It would probably have worked, if Stiles had been planning to run. “None of that explains why you would let yourself get blown up and then go into the building.” Derek clenched his jaw. “You weren’t necessary there, Stiles.”

That hurt. “Maybe not in the building,” Stiles agreed, “but no one else could have hacked the PA, and I could only do that if I was close. I’m sorry if that seems stupid to you, but I really didn’t want anyone to die.”

“You can’t control life and death, Stiles,” Derek said, voice still harsh.

“No, I can’t,” Stiles agreed, feeling a little bit of anger creeping in. He took a deep breath. If he let himself get angry, this was just going to devolve into a screaming repetition of a fight they’d had probably a hundred times before. “But I can do my best to keep as many people alive as possible.”

Derek growled, a low noise that Stiles had almost forgotten, if not for right after the fire. Stiles knew Derek’s anger was layered with fear and memory. It was almost enough not to be annoyed with Derek letting the anger control. 

Before Derek could say anything, Stiles continued, “Including you. I have no idea if you guys heard the PA or not, but Derek, if you think I’m going to let you die in a burning fucking building without trying to help, you haven’t been paying attention.”

He didn’t growl, but Derek’s eyes and voice were harsh. “If you believe I’d think you dying would be a fair trade, you haven’t been paying attention, either.”

“Does it matter at all that I’m an adult, I assessed my own injuries, and I knew I’d be just as fine as anyone else running the risk of having a burning building cave in on them?” Stiles asked. “Because other people were doing that, too, and no one seems to be locking them up in hospital rooms.”

“That’s because they weren’t injured,” Derek said. “They’re all fine, if exhausted. You’re the one with forty-five new stitches, bandaged ribs, a wrist brace, and bruises up and down every part of you I can see.”

“Yeah, concussive force is a bitch,” Stiles agreed. “It was still my choice.”

“I don’t like it,” Derek said.

“Obviously,” Stiles replied. “But you don’t get to decide what I do and don’t do. I didn’t let you do that when we were dating, and I’m sure not letting you now.”

Derek rubbed the bridge of his nose, a sign he was building a tension headache that even his healing couldn’t totally fend off. “I know,” he finally said. “It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Stiles shrugged with his good shoulder; he’d learned his lesson there. “Tough shit?” he said, turning it into a question. “It’s not meant to make you feel better. It’s just meant to be true.”

“I don’t want you to die, Stiles,” Derek said, finally sitting down.

“I don’t want me to die, either,” Stiles agreed, snorting a laugh. “Sometimes it’s just a risk I run. If I was so afraid of dying, I wouldn’t work for the CIA. I mean, I’m afraid, don’t get me wrong. Without a healthy fear of death, my survival instincts would suck even worse than they do now. I just don’t let it get in the way of doing what I think is right.” Stiles put out a hand and Derek took it without hesitation, leaning his forearms against the bed.

“Then be more of an asshole,” Derek sighed. Stiles watched the fight run out of him, the anger losing control.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve used up a pretty big portion of my asshole quota already,” Stiles said, squeezing Derek’s fingers. He paused, then, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Derek gave him an off-center look. “We already are.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“No,” Derek answered, letting his head drop forward. “It’ll be fine.”

“All right,” Stiles said, nodding. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’m pretty much a prisoner in here.”

Derek huffed a laugh against their hands. “Good,” he said.

It was silent for a while. A comfortable kind of silent that reminded Stiles of years of sitting quietly next to Derek, setting aside his need to always keep the conversation going so he wouldn’t stop and start thinking. It was comfortable, but it wasn’t the right time. “Derek,” Stiles said softly.

Derek looked up at him. 

“I’m really sorry.” Stiles let himself give Derek a small, sideways smile.

Derek nodded. “I know. I am, too.” He paused. “Let’s just not do it again.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles agreed, laughing softly.

“Don’t call it a plan,” Derek grimaced. “Nothing you call a plan is ever good.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles said, letting his laugh grow louder. “I’ve saved asses around the world with my brilliant plans.”

“Sure,” Derek agreed. “Maybe.” He raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t had that experience with them.”

Stiles grinned widely. “Fair enough. It sounds like a good idea, which we should implement to the best of our ability. Wordy, but I think it gets the point across.”

Derek lifted their hands to kiss the back of Stiles’ knuckles. “I’ll take it.”

“You know,” Stiles started, then stopped.

“I do,” Derek agreed, “but you can say it anyway.”

Smiling, Stiles finished, “You know I still love you, right? It never really went away, just sort of hung there, like an obnoxious painting you can’t get rid of because, for all you think you want to, you really don’t.”

“Way to qualify,” Derek said, shaking his head.

“I thought it was poetic,” Stiles said, winking.

Derek’s eyebrows pulled together. “I asked you never to do that again. It’s creepy.”

Stiles scowled. “And I think I told you that you were creepy in general, and to let me have my one little creep.”

“No,” Derek said. “It’s just too weird. Don’t do it.”

“Fine,” Stiles agreed, leaning back into his pillows. Justified actions or not, Stiles knew he was going to be exhausted for a while.

“I love you, too,” Derek said, the non sequitur jarring Stiles a bit. “I didn’t actually try to stop.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Because you’re both creepy and a masochist.”

Derek shrugged. “Less of both, lately.”

“Good,” Stiles said. He kept eye contact with Derek, then continued, “This right here? This is a terrible idea.”

“Why,” Derek said, not at all a question.

Stiles answered anyway. “We live on different sides of the continent.” He paused. “We have _lives_ on different sides of the continent.”

“So?” Derek asked before he snorted. “I don’t think that if twelve years wasn’t enough, a few thousand miles magically will be.”

“Don’t jinx magic,” Stiles said, glancing around the room. “It hates us.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, voice flat.

“Also,” Stiles continued, like Derek hadn’t spoken, “That was probably the sappiest thing this room has ever heard. And this is a hospital room. It’s heard some sappy shit.”

Derek breathed out. “Shut up, Stiles.”

 

_Epilogue_

**AUGUST**

Stiles had only just stopped walking without some sort of pain making him limp like an idiot when James decided he was ready for field duty again.

Surprisingly, it hadn’t been a disaster. Exhausting, sure, but actually a successful mission, and working with Jess again had been great. Jason was still on “quiet bed rest,” which meant Jess was constantly at his apartment trying to keep him busy.

Stiles wasn’t sticking his nose in that until he had the energy to actually deal with it.

He’d just gotten home, using the barest amount of energy to shrug off his jacket before he collapsed on the sofa, when someone knocked on his door. Looking at it, Stiles realized it was unlocked. He didn’t feel any danger, so he yelled, “C’mon in!”

The door opened to reveal Derek, a scowl on his face. “Why isn’t your door locked?” he asked.

“Why hello, Derek, how nice to see you,” Stiles answered, rolling his eyes and loosening his tie.

Derek picked up a small sports bag and walked inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

“And please, scuff my apartment,” Stiles continued. He watched as Derek dropped the bag and pulled off his shoes. Something else Stiles hadn’t done. He pushed one off with the other, and the last off with his socked foot, ignoring the scuff he’d probably left.

Dropping down onto the couch next to Stiles, Derek breathed out in something that wasn’t quite a sigh, but wasn’t really anything else, either.

“Don’t you have a pack to run somewhere?” Stiles asked, leaning into Derek’s space enough that his scent would be distracting, but not so far as to touch.

Rewardingly, Derek growled and moved so that Stiles was pressed up against his side, Derek’s arm around his waist to tug him closer. Somehow, this action was both familiar and new. Stiles leaned into Derek and let himself be manhandled. He really did appreciate being manhandled under the right circumstances.

“Seriously: why are you here?” Stiles asked. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, because yay, but I’m pretty sure you have things to do.”

“I’m here for those things,” Derek said. “I have a meeting with Theo on Saturday--” it was Wednesday-- “and a delivery for you from Jorge.”

Jorge had been appointed Southern Emissary by his people. No one was surprised. Elice had never wanted it and no one had more renown after the fire than Jorge. In Stiles’ opinion, it was well-earned. “What kind of delivery?”

“He’s inviting you to go foster so Elice can make you learn magic,” Derek answered, relaxing back into the couch cushions. “Theo will agree. You should talk James into it. It’ll build relationships and make you more useful.”

Stiles snorted. “I’m plenty useful.”

“Sure,” Derek agreed. “That’s why I said _more_ useful.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Derek shrugged. “That’s fine.” His eyes had slipped shut and his hand was slowly stroking up and down Stiles’ side.

“Why do you have to meet with Theo?” Stiles asked, tugging a blanket from the other side of the couch and dropping it on their laps.

“Lydia got into a program for her second Ph.D. at Harvard and I need to ask if it’s all right that a foreign Emissary temporarily reside in his Territory,” Derek answered. “I also need to threaten Angelica again.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, that’ll work. She doesn’t actually want to date me, you know. She just enjoys antagonizing you.”

Angelica had been put off when she’d walked in on Derek very gently kissing Stiles in the hospital, but she’d gotten over it quickly. To Stiles, at least. She still made a big play about it when Derek was around.

She’d also managed to walk into Stiles’ decidedly less plush hotel room after Stiles had finally been released from the hospital. That would have been fine, if there hadn’t been Thank God You’re Alive And Also It’s Been Twelve Years sex going on. Derek had been less than happy. Stiles had found it hilarious, though he blamed the pheromones for a good part of that.

Sex with Derek had been like relearning to ride a bike: easy and incredibly rewarding. Stiles was big enough to admit that he’d been comparing everyone he slept with to Derek ever since he’d realized he _could_ have sex with someone other than Derek -- which had actually taken a couple years, not that he was ever telling Derek that. Part of that was definitely the fact that Derek was damn good at it and had Stiles’ body memorized like only creepy stalkers could ever manage.

Another, larger, part was that he was painfully in love with Derek, and, to quote bad pop, everything he did was magic. “Plus,” Stiles added, elbowing Derek in the abdomen. “I’d never actually say yes. Not when I can fly six hours and have you instead.”

Derek snorted, but buried his face in Stiles’ hair. “Jorge suggested appointing you the Counsel’s Ambassador to both unaffiliated Territories and the human world at large. That would put you in each Territory a lot more frequently.”

“Huh,” Stiles said, turning so that his forehead was against Derek’s. “That would be fun.” He paused. “As long as I could take Jess and Jason with me.”

“That’s what I said,” Derek muttered, moving to bury his face in Stiles’ neck.

“Good boy,” Stiles said, running a hand through Derek’s hair. Derek growled at the joke, but didn’t move. “I think you need a nap, man.”

Derek nodded into the joint between Stiles’ shoulder and neck. “Had to fly to Texas, meet with Jorge, and then fly here. I fucking hate airplanes.”

Stiles ran his hand through Derek’s hair again and dug his fingernails in a little. “I know.” He wrapped an arm around Derek’s waist and tugged. “Come on. If you fall asleep there, you’re going to wake up cold and grumpy. At least if you fall asleep in the bed, you’ll wake up warm and grumpy instead.” He tugged again and Derek stood. 

Instead of walking toward the bedroom, Derek pulled Stiles into his arms and breathed against his neck.

“How long are you staying?” Stiles asked softly, holding Derek just as tightly. He felt Derek shrug.

“Scott needs more practice leading. Erica and Boyd still don’t listen to him very well,” Derek answered.

“If you stay until Erica starts listening to someone other than you, I’m going to have to add you to the lease,” Stiles said, digging his fingers into Derek’s hip. Derek snorted again.

“No,” he said, “but at least a week or two.”

Stiles hummed into Derek ear, then kissed his temple. “That sounds nice.”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed. “It does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Congrats to last chapter's trivia winners: Sophi Kingsley and Cecaelia! There is no trivia question for this chapter.
> 
> Instead, there's a side story. Not to be spoilery (but the tags include PWP, so who am I kidding), but this is for the folks who really wanted this to end with some sex in it. Unfortunately, I didn't think it would be in-character, especially since they're about to be on opposite sides of the country again. So! Check out the series and subscribe to that, as there's already another side story, which will go up Sunday, and there are likely to be more (though probably shorter ones).
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! And feel free to follow me on [Tumblr](http://approximatelytrue.tumblr.com) or add me on [Dreamwidth](http://anoyo.dreamwidth.org) if you want to know when I have open prompt fiestas!


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